


The arrangement

by ChocoNut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Of Course - Freeform, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Jaime’s friends set him up on a date with a woman a new so-called highly accurate app has matched him with. When he’s compelled to keep the commitment, he decides to confide in hisideal mateand conspire against his friends, and together, they work out an arrangement that will save them the headache of future potential partners.What he and Brienne don’t envisage is how this whole thing might actually turn out. While they’re bothnot interestedin their first date, what they can’t foresee is that this impulsive plot might bring them closer, have them catch feelings and more.Note (08-Mar-2021) : The next update is taking longer than I’d planned. Can’t promise, but I should be able to have it up in another week. Thank you for your patience!
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 99
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that's been eating my head for days - here it is, finally out there.  
> Thank you for joining me on this and I hope you enjoy it.

“For the last time, _no._ ”

Jaime gets up to leave, to get rid of this company so hell-bent on setting him up for the evening with some random stranger, thereby trying to stamp out the tranquillity in his life.

“Just one date,” Tyrion, pushy as ever, continues to insist.

“Yeah,” Bronn tags along like an echo. Something about the man’s tone warns Jaime this is not going to end well for him. “For tonight, you don’t have a choice, dude.”

Wary of what he’s capable of, Jaime returns to his seat, bracing himself for the worst. “What did you do?”

Bronn waves his cellphone. “We sent her an interest on your behalf.”

Jaime glares at them, aghast.

“And she accepted,” Tyrion sheepishly adds his bit. “You don’t want to break an innocent woman’s heart, do you?” 

Jaime snatches his friend’s phone to check out this _innocent woman_ the dating software matched him with. “Brienne Tarth,” he reads out aloud, taking in the rest of the profile which unwraps before him the details of the ugliest, most boring woman that can ever be born. “She doesn’t even look like a woman—”

“She does have pretty eyes.” Tyrion drags down the phone to his reach and zooms in on her face. “See, she’s not all that bad—”

“Yeah, not bad at all,” Jaime dryly chimes in, scowling as he takes in his prospective _mate_ as computed by this supposedly accurate (this being the exact words of its makers) software. But when he peeps in for a second, closer look, he has to agree with his brother. There’s something about those eyes, something that’s drawing him in like a magnet, something—

“8 p.m then,” Bronn happily concludes. “You’re meeting her at The Red Keep for dinner.”

“So you’ve got it all planned out,” Jaime says, hitting his friends with all that he can—sarcasm, distaste, disapproval, all of which, unfortunately, appear to have the opposite of the intended effect on them. “What are we going to eat? Am I going to walk her home like one of those mushy dates in rom-coms?” he goes on, trying not to picture himself with the woman who looks taller than him—than most men he knows. “And when I make it to her place, am I going to kiss her goodnight before leaving?” His mind jumping straight to the worst that can happen, his heart starts to beat away in trepidation. “Am I going to retrace my steps and knock on her door? Are we gonna have sex—”

“Ooh, we’d love to hear all the details if you manage to get to all that in just two hours.” Bronn strikes him with the craftiest smirk he’s ever worn. “I’d steer clear of sex tonight. For a first date, it would seem rather desperate—”

“I was kidding!”

“You really are desperate, though,” Bronn chuckles, giving a damn about Jaime’s intervention. “Those grunts that leak out of your bedroom at times—” 

“Enough—” Embarrassed that his nighttime solo shenanigans have now become public information and his mates’ entertainment, Jaime gets up, and putting down his share for the drinks, decides to abandon his current company “—I’m leaving—”

“You will keep your end of the bargain, right?” Tyrion eyes him with hope, with a gleam that sends out an impression that this is no matchmaking app but god’s own voice. “Undoubtedly the choice is yours, but then you have to settle down some time or the other.” There’s an edge to his voice Jaime doesn’t like “If not her, the door’s always open for another. Of course if you give it a sincere try and then decide against it—”

“Nope,” Jaime asserts, determined to nip their attempts in the bud. “I’m not going out with this Brienne or whoever else you try and set me up with.”

+++++

“So, Brienne—” Jaime regards her over the rim of his glass “—what do you do for a living?” he inquires, despite devouring every little tidbit he could come across about her.

“I’m a banker,” she replies, looking offended at his ignorance. “It says on my profile—” those large blue eyes shrink to appraising slits “—which you obviously didn’t bother reading.”

“I just skimmed through it,” he absently bluffs, recalling every small detail he’d read about her whilst ruing his fate, his friends’ terrible idea to get him hitched, the damn software for pairing him up with this wench he can certainly do better without. “I only came here because—”

“—your so-called well-wisher pals set you up to this?” Brienne puts down her fork with a knowing look. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested either.”

“You too—”

“Hmm.” 

Maybe it’s her indifference towards him, her candid admission of the same or the plainly obvious fact that she’s probably the first of her sex to be totally immune to his charms, for the first time since he’s walked in with her, Jaime’s actually intrigued, struck with an unexpected curiosity about her. And mildly insulted, as well, as he’s not quite accustomed to this almost-zero female attention. While he’s prompted to bombard her with further questions, he sticks to silent observation, for now, for the rest of what will be their first and last date. Unattractive and uninterested, she’s an odd sort of woman, but what’s even stranger is the way she presents herself in his company—far from enamoured by his looks, unaffected by the usual spell he effortlessly casts on any companion of the opposite sex.

“The dating app’s gone crazy, don’t you think?” he starts again when their main course arrives, the urge to strike conversation overpowering his resolve to restrain his tongue and let this evening pass in peace. “You and me—can there even a couple more mismatched than us—”

“While I’m inclined to agree, my friends don’t think so,” she grumbles, poking at a slice of cucumber. “They think if I go out once with a guy like you—”

“A guy like me?” Jaime can’t help feel a tug of something he can’t explain in his chest. “You say that as if I’m terrible boyfriend material.”

“Not _you_ in particular—” she pauses to take in a bite “—but the rich, handsome types—”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I—” those eyelids flutter away adorably “—I’d rather not enter into this discussion.”

“Why not?” Now, he wants to read her mind, wants to, just for academic purposes, find out her _type_. “Are you worried if you continue to go out with me, you might end up swooning in my arms—”

“Nothing’s ever going to happen between us,” she snaps, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I promised my friends one evening, and one evening it will be.”

“Relax, I was just kidding.” He was wrong. She’s not just indifferent, but totally repulsed with the prospect of dating him. “I already told you I’m not interested.”

She doesn’t argue, but shovels down her food as if her butt’s on fire, like she wants to get away from there, get him out of her sight as soon as she can. Jaime’s half-tempted to pull out his phone to type out a curtly triumphant one-liner to his brother telling him their attempts have fallen flat, but knowing Bronn and Tyrion, he knows they’ll never give up, he holds back. With a sigh, he resigns to his fate, to the fact that they’re going to hunt out another app, set him up with someone else sooner or later. And then, he’s going to have to put himself through this torture, meet another woman— 

_Not if this date’s a success,_ points out a small voice inside him, planting the seed of a plan in his head, a permanent solution to this problem, the grand unveiling of which has to wait until they finish dessert and leave. The more he mulls over it, the more his confidence grows. Given their mutual disinterest in each other and the zero chemistry between them, he knows while they’re never going to work his ploy most certainly will. Unlike his previous dates, this Brienne is totally harmless. She’s never going to fall for him nor is he ever going to end up dreaming about her.

“I propose a plan to hoodwink our friends,” he begins with barely a context as they step out of the diner. “To make sure they don’t make us suffer this again,” he calls after her when she rushes out to her escape.

That grabs her attention and she slows down. “Go on.”

“There’s a catch, though—” he hesitates, braces himself for an unsavoury reaction “—for it to work, we’d have to go out again—”

“What—”

“Hear me out, Brienne.” He tries to avoid those eyes that seem determined to suck him into their world. “If we pretend this date worked, giving our friends the impression that we’re totally smitten with each other—”

“I can’t—” she cuts him, appalled. “That’s a ridiculous—” 

“You think I’d enjoy it?” he hisses, the prospect of _them_ disgusting her this much pricking him. And the fact that it’s bothering him for no particular reason at all alarms him. “If we don’t do this, they’re going to keep trying. Do you intend to let them win? Are you really up to meeting guy after guy, putting yourself through this punishment every weekend?”

She gives it a thought. “I’d have to meet _you_ weekend after weekend.”

“Which isn’t going to be that bad obviously.”

“Really?”

He can’t help tossing her what he believes is his most charming, winning smile. “There are no men like me, Brienne. Only me.”

Far from impressed, she makes no attempt to hide her disapproval. “That’s what Sansa told me when she described you.”

He steps up in front of her, blocking her path. “Really?”

“She certainly thinks you’re something akin to a fairy tale prince whereas I hold an entirely different opinion—” 

“I know,” he stops her in a small voice. “But I’m the safest option you have if you don’t want to be trapped into an infinite loop of dating and turning down men.” The cool night air kisses them as they walk out into the open. “Think about it. I’d be the best possible arrangement you could ever have. I won’t hold your hand, won’t ever attempt to kiss you, won’t be eyeing for an opportunity to get into your pants—” 

Heat rushing up his neck, he holds back, holds on, hoping for a favourable answer.

“Fine,” she says, at last, albeit reluctantly, as if she’s been asked to step into the gallows with him. “But this can’t go on forever. Someday we’d have to _break up._ ”

“Six months, max,” he shoots out his estimate. “That’ll convince them we’ve genuinely tried, dissuade them from trying again. And they’ll never even know what we’ve been up to behind their backs.”

While his soon-to-be pretend girlfriend doesn’t seem entirely convinced about it, she concedes with a forced tight smile. “Alright.”

Jaime holds out his hand. “Here’s to six months of freedom from this matchmaking nonsense.” And to put up with half a year of this, he has to get to know her better. “How about I walk you home tonight?”

Brienne accepts his handshake but doesn’t immediately take to his offer.

“Don’t worry,” he teases, when she continues to contemplate, “I’m not going to come upstairs and try to kiss you goodnight.”

“Of course, you won't,” she retorts. “You’ve made it more than clear that you’re not interested.” But the next moment, her eyes lose their sparks of indignation. “I live—”

“I know,” Jaime says, gesturing to her to walk with him. 

Her brows arch up in suspicion. “How do you know where I live? You never even bothered to read up the basics in my profile.”

“Well—” he coughs away the obstruction in his throat “—my friends did happen to research a bit about you, Brienne.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's get-to-know-each-other time.

“So where are we?”

Mildly distracted by the uncalled-for interruption, Brienne looks away from the Wookie on the screen to the man who’s supposed to be her _match-made-in-heaven_. “Watching _Star Wars_ at your place.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, wench.”

That gets her to pay attention, and she pauses the movie to properly glare at him. “Stop calling me wench—”

“Nah, it’s kinda cute,” he says with relish. “I like the idea of this secret nickname I’ve coined for my lovely girlfriend, something only I am allowed to call you in private.”

“I’m neither lovely nor your girlfriend.” If there’s one thing that pisses her off more than him calling her _wench_ , it’s his fake compliments. She knows she hasn’t the looks to make a man like him weak in the knees, nor is she endowed with the socializing skills of an extrovert to compensate for what she sorely lacks in appearance.

“On paper, you are,” he goes on, paying no heed to her scowl.

“On paper?”

“Yeah, the pact we made on our first date—”

“There was no _pact_.” _And that was no date._ She puts away the remote. “I just decided to indulge you because you—”

“—because _we_ didn’t want our friends to put us through the grind of this matchmaking ritual over and over again. It was a joint decision, wench. We shook hands on it.” He makes a face at Chewbacca as if the poor creature’s responsible for this _date_ or whatever one might call it. “Never thought I’d have to go through all this to keep up my side of the agreement. I hate Star Wars.”

“I thought all guys love Star Wars!” 

“That’s like saying all girls love Disney movies,” he hits back. “Do you?”

Sighing, she switches off the TV. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be generalizing. To each one their choices.”

“Hmm.” He leans back, slightly mollified. “We’ve been going out for about a month now. We should be using this time to get to know each other better.”

“This is a pretend relationship.” Something tells her she’s walking on glass, warns her to tread carefully. “We’ve had dinner together about a handful of times. That’s all there is, and I know more about you than—”

“What’s my favourite genre?”

That he is barely even able to endure the movie they’re currently watching is good enough a clue. “You don’t like sci-fi.” 

“A very precise answer indeed,” he dryly remarks, then buries himself in his phone. 

Maybe he’s right—this hesitation isn’t going to get them anywhere. If they’re to pull this through convincingly it’s going to take more than sitting on opposite corners on the couch with their eyes glued to the TV. Conversing is not her strong point, but she’d have to endure it at least for the next few weeks.

“Romance?” she tries again, and when he looks up from his phone, eyes lighting up like the moon-lit sky, she knows she’s hit the mark.

“My best friend’s wedding,” he dreamily reveals. “I simply loved that one—”

“That was one mean heroine in that,” Brienne expresses her distaste, recalling how Renly had made her watch the thing twice. “If your best friend’s in love, you’re supposed to encourage him, not—”

“—even if you’re in love with them?”

She nods emphatically to stress her point. “She had her chance with him. If she didn’t act—”

“We’re friends, right?”

The abruptness with which he’s sprung it on her leaves her thinking for a moment. “We could be,” she cautiously answers. What she’s gotten herself into is beginning to get more and more complex by the day, and she doesn’t, yet, want to put a tag to what _they_ are. 

“And when we’ve become friends, when things progress between us,” he continues with his hypothetical scenario, closely studying her as he unfolds it, “what if you happen to fall in love with me—”

“Never gonna get there,” she hastily deflects it.

“What if—”

“There’s no what-if.” This discussion is pointless. She’s never going to make it to that. Not with a hot dude like the one sharing this couch and this evening with her. “Now can we talk about something else—”

“Your favourite colour is blue,” he effortlessly switches, before she can suggest an alternate subject.

Impressed, though she is, she knows she has to play it cool. “That was simple. You deduced that from the number of blues in my wardrobe—”

“Your interests differ from what women your age usually prefer,” he goes on, steady green eyes reading her like her mind’s free for all. “Fencing, shooting, wrestling—but at the same time—” he moves the remote to the coffee table and shifts closer “—you like girly stuff too—”

“My—my interests are on my profile,” she stops him, surprised at his level of detail. While she’d vaguely mentioned these things, specifics like this are known only to her few close friends and—

“I can even tell you your taste in men.”

A fleeting image of her ex floats across her mind.

“You like tall, handsome men.” His naughty smile’s not unnerving, not intimidating, but oddly engaging. “Square jaw with just the right helping of stubble—” He pauses to let her process his theory, and much to her chagrin, the man sitting next to her barges into her head, nudging Renly away, telling him he’s had his day. “Broad chest, toned arms, green eyes—”

“Oh, stop it now,” she says, wary of letting him get too far. “Now you’re just indulging yourself—”

“You do like good looking guys,” he concludes. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have agreed to go out with me—”

“I’d rather you steer clear of self-flattering assumptions.” She stuffs her phone inside her handbag. “Since we’re getting nowhere with this movie night, I might as well go home—”

When she’s about to get up, he grabs her hand to pull her back to her seat. “You never answered my question, Brienne.”

She’s blank for a second. All she can feel is his fingers, his skin on hers. Five dates in three weeks, and all they’d done was shaken hands, but this—this is beginning to make her aware that she’s probably not completely immune to his charms. But then, she can’t really blame herself. A man with a magnetic personality like him—he makes heads turn wherever he goes—and this, whatever she’s feeling is, no doubt, just a normal reaction, something she’ll get over as she continues to spend time with him. 

“Wench—”

“What question?” she asks, crawling out of the web in her mind.

“Where are we in our relationship?” He looks down at their interlocked fingers. “Holding hands—that’s one thing we can both agree on—” he shifts closer “—what about kissing?”

Her breath turns to something solid blocking her chest. “What about that?”

“Are we kissing yet?”

When she can’t help steal a glance at his perfect lips, she withdraws her hand. “Are we supposed to be doing that?”

He strikes her with a curve of a half-smile. “Five dates in—we’re supposed to be doing more than kissing, honey—”

“I’m not your _honey_ —”

“How about _sweetie_ , then?” He throws in a wink to go with his playful tone. “Or _darling_? On a serious note, tomorrow we’re meeting the gang for dinner. So we have to arrive at a consensus about kissing and more before we—”

“I don’t see why—”

“Oh, trust me, as we get deeper into this, Sansa is going to want to know the juicy details,” he points out, and given how the girl’s been trying to prod her into revealing what Jaime is like in bed, Brienne grudgingly falls in line with his assessment of their friends. And her _boyfriend_ , unfortunately, chooses this instant to cash in on her embarrassment. “Has she asked you anything yet?”

“A lot,” she replies vaguely, trying not to go red in the face.

“About the kiss?”

“And more.”

“Now that your bestie is dating my brother, I’m afraid we’ll be seeing a lot more of them than we’d expected,” he voices out her fear. “So we’re going to have to up our act if we want to sound convincing.” 

“No arguments to that,” she mumbles, dreading the questions they’re going to have to field.

“So how many times have we kissed?”

“With the first date exempted—” she does a quick mental calculation “—I’d say four times?”

“And how has it been so far?” There’s something in his voice that tugs at her—the deep rumble suddenly very very attractive. “Are you enjoying—”

“I’m not getting into that now,” she cuts him, her ears suddenly flaming with the heat that’s hit them from nowhere. “What I tell Sansa is between the two of us—”

“What if she and Tyrion compare notes?” he asks, springing up a problem she's failed, so far, to evaluate. “If you and I give different answers, the cat would be out of the bag before we can even—”

“Fine,” she gives in. “It was—” she decides to override the vision that jumps up to aid her opinion “—okay.”

“Just okay?” He looks at her, slightly offended, though somewhat amused at her assessment. “I’m a damn good kisser, darlin’.”

“You might be—” the vision strengthens to an alarming extent, impeding the flow of thoughts “—but I can’t really vouch for what I don’t know.”

“Do you—” he drags himself closer “— _want_ to know?” 

“I—” She opens her mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. “I think we should leave it at—”

“Right—” he moves back to his corner “—I was just kidding, trying to study your expressions, your reactions—part of getting to know you better.”

 _Of course, you were kidding_ , she agrees, frustrated. A man like him wanting to kiss her—it can happen only in movies—that too, only in those where the ugly duckling magically transforms into a swan.

“What about sex?” he asks, jolting her out of her tattered self-esteem.

She gathers her handbag and gets up. “Not until we get to know each other properly.”

+++++ 

“You and Jaime, Tyrion and me—this is amazing.” Sansa’s beaming as if she’s already decided on a date for their joint weddings. “I’d almost given up on you. After Renly, it was quite a challenge finding someone—”

“Renly?” Jaime looks like he’s eaten a giant piece of extra-sour lemon. “You went out with Renly Baratheon?”

Brienne nods. “You knew him?”

“Pampered rich brat—who doesn’t know him?” His displeasure is concentrated on her eyes. “You never told me you went out with him.”

“How does it matter? I broke up with him long back.”

“I thought we decided to keep no secrets from each other, honey,” he makes it up, feigning hurt and disappointment.

“Yeah,” she plays along, tries her best to match his overacting. “But then—” 

“Did _you_ tell her about Cersei?” 

“Who’s Cersei?” While Brienne is thankful to Tyrion for rescuing her, Jaime glares daggers at his brother. “Transparency goes both ways, Jaime,” she complains, jumping at this chance to get back at him.

“Cersei’s my ex.” There’s a complete shift in his expression—like he doesn’t want to dwell on this obvious baggage he’s still reeling from. “And yes, I should’ve told you about her.”

Brienne reaches across the table to take his hand. “Never mind. We’re both new to this—”

“—and we’re both learning each other—and from each other ,” he adds, the sunshine back on his face. “I just learned how much you like holding my hand, Brienne—”

Her fingers trembling, she withdraws the contact, and just as she’s fumbling around her mind for a less embarrassing subject, their order arrives, diverting her companions, saving her the pain of battling their teasing remarks.

As they dig through the multiple courses, the conversation switches to the others, to how Tyrion and Sansa met and began to hit it off immediately. Brienne mostly remains silent, eating and listening, and oddly, for the incessantly talkative man he is, Jaime, too, remains confined to his food, detaching himself from the now not-so-personal chit-chat floating around the table.

When they step out, Brienne’s relieved. Peace has stood by her so far and—

“Hey,” Sansa hisses, tugging at her sleeve when the men are past the door. “You never answered my questions.”

Bracing herself for the worst, Brienne tries not to look too perturbed. “Which ones?”

Her overly inquisitive friend edges closer, whispers in her ear, “Is he a good kisser?”

Brienne’s about to answer with a bland _okay,_ but Jaime’s tall claim returns to cloud her response. “He’s fantastic.”

“Ooh!” Sansa is all eyes and ears. “And have you two—”

“Not yet. We’ve decided to give it some time.”

Disappointed, though she is, for having been deprived of a spicy end to this evening, her friend pats her arm in approval. “Makes sense, but you know what—” she’s excitement-personified again “—Jaime’s the perfect guy for you. Don’t you let go of him.”

Despite her determination to keep the discussion about her _love-life_ to the barest minimum possible, Brienne decides to surrender to curiosity. “What makes you think so?”

“Where do I begin—the way he looks at you, for instance?”

“Come on,” Brienne waves her off. “I’m sure—”

“Renly’s never looked at you like that,” says her friend, and she’s not smiling now. Nor does she appear to be joking. “Like you’re the prettiest thing he’s set eyes on.”

_That’s only because he’s a damn good actor._

“And the way he flared up at Renly’s name—”

“That was nothing—”

“Oh, he was jealous. Burning—”

“I suppose so,” Brienne quietly agrees, marveling at Jaime’s convincing skills. “I—”

“Are you ladies planning to stand by the door all night?”

“Coming,” she replies, thankful, once again, to Tyrion for coming to her rescue.

“I’ll walk you home,” Jaime offers as they step out. 

“Where’s your car?” His brother has on one of his choicest cheekiest grins. “Trying to keep yourself fit to impress your new girlfriend?”

“A stroll after dinner means more time with her.” Jaime takes her hand. “More romantic than a drive, bro.”

Tyrion concedes with a cheerful nod. “Enjoy your romantic stroll then.” He sniffs the air—it’s pleasant, there’s the gentle scent of wet earth wafting around—an indication that it might start raining anytime. “Good night.”

He and Sansa head over to the parking lot leaving Brienne alone with her date. “They’re gone,” she says, waking up to the tingling in her fingers as soon as they take a turn towards the quiet road leading to her place. “You can let go of my hand now.”

“You sure?” The streetlights highlight the naughty gleam in his eyes. “You seemed quite keen on holding hands back when we were eating—”

“Oh, come on now.” She frees her hand from his grasp, steps aside to put some gap between them.

“Don’t worry, I’m not interested,” he quips the usual, his tone losing its softly romantic edge it’d had in public. “You could’ve told me about Renly, though.”

“We don’t have to know every aspect of each other’s personal lives,” she disagrees, sticking to her stand. “Renly was my past—”

“Do you love him?”

She stumbles to a halt. “You can’t just—”

“Don’t dodge the question, wench—”

“Don’t call me wench—”

“ _Oh dear!_ ”

It begins with a slight drizzle, something they can outrun if they hurry, but the second they speed up, it advances to a full blown shower. 

“Fuck!” Jaime swears, coming to a halt and looking around in desperation as his shirt goes from white to transparent. “If only there had been a warning we could’ve come prepared with umbrellas.” He looks around before continuing to grumble like an irritated teenager, “As our ill-luck would have it, there’s nowhere we can take cover.”

Brienne looks up, welcomes the raindrops on her face. “The first showers are meant to be enjoyed, Jaime. Loosen up, have some fun, you’re not gonna join the puddle on the floor—”

“You like getting drenched in the rain?” He eyes her with amazement while she can’t help eyeing the strands of hair plastered to his forehead, the little droplets hugging his eyelashes, some of them dangling precariously on the tip of his nose. “But you hate fluffy love stories—” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a romantic.”

“You used to do this with Renly?” His anger with the rain-gods unleashing their wrath upon him is forgotten. “Walking in the rain with your lover, holding hands—”

“Yeah, I did,” she tersely cuts him. “Now can we get on and go home before this turns into a storm?” She takes in his Adam's apple that bobs up and down, the way he pushes the hair off his eyes and the wet shirt that leaves not much to imagination, trying not to picture what he might look like when stripped of it. “Listen, I’m enjoying this, but if you want to call a cab, you can go ahead—”

“And leave you alone in the dark?” he says, with mock-chivalry. “I think I can put up with a few minutes of rain for my lady.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he insists, his eyes narrowing in a smile as they resume their walk. “And if you want, I can pretend to be Renly. We can hold hands—”

“No, thanks.” She’s relieved it’s dark enough to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks.

“It’s part of the package, wench.”

“Not when the package is a _pretend-package_.” Strangely, though, she’s not entirely annoyed by his easy-going playfulness. “Not when we’re alone and none of our friends are monitoring our relationship status.” 

“Relax, I was only teasing you, wench.”

“Will you stop calling me wen—”

“Nah, as your boyfriend, I reserve the right to—”

“Pretend-boyfriend,” she corrects him, quickening her strides.

“Yeah yeah, suit yourself,” he pants. “Wading through a downpour unnecessarily is the last thing I’m interested in.” 

With that firm proclamation, he decides to let her be and they chug along the puddles, the pitter-patter around them and the occasional horn of a passing vehicle the only sound apart from their footsteps.

As suddenly as it had sneaked up on them, the rain recedes by the time they’re at their destination. “Here you are,” he gallantly says, when they stop at her gate. “Safe and sound.”

Brienne can’t help the giggle that escapes her. “Thank you for making sure I reached home in one piece.” 

He tips his head in a short old-fashioned bow. “My pleasure, darling.”

“Shut up.”

Jaime hits back with a charming smile. “Good night, Brienne.”

Just as he’s about to leave, she stops him. “Hey, you want to come upstairs?”

The wicked glint in those eyes return to haunt her when he stabs her with his gaze. “To do _what_ exactly?”

“I was thinking of lending you an umbrella.” she explains, speaking very fast. “I just didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” Despite her dripping clothes, she’s feeling hot inside. “But… since you’ve decided to twist around my intent, I think you’re better off without rain-protection.”

“You know I was kidding.” he clarifies. “Thanks for the offer, but I guess I’ll just—” he glances at the line of cabs parked along the road “—head over to one of those instead of walking home.”

“Good night, Jaime,” she calls out, when he starts off in the direction of the stand.

“Night.”

With a short wave he’s gone, but she hangs around gazing into the dark for a while, mulling over the strange evening she’s been through. Only after she spots him getting into a cab, she turns to leave, and by the time she’s made it into the building, her phone beeps. **“D’you still love Renly?”**

She waits for the elevator to arrive and once she’s inside, types out, **“I still don’t see how that’s relevant to our arrangement.”**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward weekend trip takes things a little further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to post this update sooner, but had to delay it because... reasons.

“Don’t you think this has gotten a bit too far?”

Eyes flashing, the flames of her irritation spread their arms far and wide, eager to lap him up, to consume him in a fitting punishment for not having raised an objection when his friends had insisted he and Brienne be a part of their weekend plan.

But then, there’s nothing criminally wrong, either, with what’s expected of them. “It’s just a two-day trip to the Blackwater resort with our friends—”

“With three other couples,” his _girlfriend_ scathingly points him to the point she thinks he’s missing. “ _Couples_ , Jaime, and you know what that means—”

“Spending the night together,” he finishes, trying to keep his voice even. _In one bed,_ he wants to add, but one look at her livid face dissuades him from slipping into his favourite teasing voice. “But apart from that,” he cheerfully goes on, “it’ll be fun.”

“Being an embarrassed witness to lovey-dovey couples engaging in PDA isn’t exactly my idea of fun,” she shoots him down, still unconvinced, still looking like she’s been awarded a death sentence she can’t wriggle out of. “Tyrion and Sansa, Jon and Ygritte, Bronn and Lollys—” Switching off that TV that had been mumbling incoherently in the background, she abandons her seat beside him to go for a stroll across his living room. “You really think we can compete with real couples like them? Our bluff will be called out the moment we land there.”

Something comes to his head—something that leads to a clenching in the pit of his belly. “If PDA is what you want—”

She changes directions, rounds up on him. “Don’t you even think about it!”

Is it just when he gets under her skin or does her chin always wobble when she’s mad at someone? Her menacing expression, though, is a blessing in disguise, enough to douse out the alarming sensations within him. Thankfully back to normal now, he dismisses it as an effect of his suggestion to indulge in PDA, makes a mental note of observing her reaction when she’s angry with someone else.

“Two nights with me isn’t going to be like sleeping on a bed of thorns, wench.”

She stares at the wall for a precious few seconds before turning to him. “Fine,” she concedes, much calmer now.

He breaks into a relieved smile. “That’s my girl. And don’t you worry, I promise not to snuggle up to you or steal kisses in the middle of the night.”

Her brows inch closer, two faint frown lines materializing between them.

“I was kidding,” he hastily clarifies.

Lips twitching involuntarily, Brienne picks up her purse signalling the end of their evening. “And I didn’t take it seriously.”

+++++

“Let’s play a game,” Tyrion announces as soon as they’re all well-fed and ready to retire for the night.

“Let’s go to bed, instead,” Bronn counters, throwing Lollys a naughty glance.

“I’d like to stay on for a while,” Lollys disagrees, and for some reason, her awe-struck eyes resort to a keen and sustained interest in Jaime instead of the man she’s dating. “It’d be good to get to know your friends better,” she adds, her face coming alive with a demure smile.

“I’m tired from all the driving.” Jaime fakes a yawn, knowing seclusion is the only way to get away from this ogling woman and his brother’s mischief-mongering ways. “I—”

“Stop being a spoilt sport and sit down,” Sansa commands, and he relents, deciding too much resistance might only raise questions at their big fat lie. “The game’s my choice this time, so let’s play Truth or Dare—” 

“That's for youngsters.” Brienne straightens, ready to leave the table. “Not for—”

“Oh, please just let’s be teenagers for one night,” Tyrion dismisses her, then turns to Bronn. “I’m going first—truth or dare?”

Bronn takes a moment to ponder which of the two evils to deal with. Not that either would bother him more than the other, or at all. “Truth.” 

“What is your deepest desire?”

Jaime’s eyes flicker around to Lollys whose attention, for a change, is captured by her boyfriend as she waits with bated breath for him to spill it out. 

“Acquiring the best house money can fetch me,” he reveals without much deliberation. His girlfriend’s face falls, and understandably so. “And you, too, darlin’,” he drawls, wrapping an arm around her.

Tyrion shrugs. “Nothing surprising there. If we lived in medieval times, you’d aim for a castle—”

“We have castles in Westeros.” Bronn smirks, leans back in his chair. “Who told you I ruled them out?” 

“No, you didn’t,” Jaime mutters under his breath, fully agreeing with him. “My turn now,” he announces, and eager to seek revenge for putting him through this, he zeroes in on his brother. “What do you choose?”

“Dare.”

“Do the one thing you’d never have, otherwise, dared to indulge in tonight.”

Jaime sits back, smug, but when the impish look in Tyrion’s eyes fades away, he can make out his brother’s slipped into some serious thinking. And when he slides out of his chair and makes his way around to Sansa, a hush covers the table. There’s no sound, not even the placing of a glass on the table nor even a slight squeak.

All her playfulness gone, Sansa sobers up instantly. “Tyrion—”

“Marry me,” his brother proposes, taking her hand. “I know it’s probably too early, but—”

“Yes.”

Bronn leans towards Jaime when the table breaks out into cheers as the happy couple share a kiss. “You Lannisters are pretty impulsive. How long will it be before you—”

“I—I’m not him,” Jaime stutters back, realizing this might have just set a precedence. “Maybe one day, but—”

“I’d like to propose a toast to Tyrion and Sansa.” Jon fondly raises his glass. “My good friend and my lovely cousin—I couldn’t have hoped for better.”

“Congratulations,” chime the rest of them, but Jaime’s still distracted, worried what more this new development and his huge lie might compel him to do. Bluffing about kissing Brienne is one thing, but this, the immediate rise of expectation this might lead to—leading this all the way up to an engagement is not something he’s prepared to deal with.

“A wonderful beginning to what’s promising to be a beautiful weekend,” he warmly wishes his brother and his fiancee, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I’m so happy for you two. And welcome to the family, Sansa.”

Sansa’s glowing like a thousand radiant suns put together. “Thank you.”

Taking this as a fitting end to an eventful day, Jaime leaves his chair. “Goodnight, everyone. See you—”

“The game’s not over yet.” Tyrion’s all-seeing eyes have him imprisoned in an arrest there’s no way out of, but his way. “My turn.”

Jaime reluctantly returns to his seat. “Fine, I’m not one to shy away from a challenge.” It’s not very difficult to gauge what’s coming, to foresee what he’s heading towards. “Dare,” he decides, nevertheless.

“Just what I was hoping for,” Tyrion gushes, his sharp eyes now scheming away merrily again. “Why don’t you tell Brienne how you feel about her?”

Jaime freezes. And next to him, he can feel the wench burning up in embarrassment. “I tell her that everyday,” he mumbles, trying to wriggle out of it. “I—”

“Nice try,” Bronn sees through him. “But it’s not working. So come on, now.”

Everyone’s focus is on him now, and trying not to melt under the intensity of it, Jaime gives up, gives in to the pressure. “I—I’m terrible at this, so I have no clue how to—” Clearing his throat, he turns to Brienne, takes her hand in his, but stays away from her eyes. “When I was first pushed into this, I was mad and cursing my friends for shoving me into your arms,” he begins, recalling how this had begun. “After Cersei, I never imagined I could find love again. But when I met you that night—” he dares, at last, to look up and face her gaze. “All I can say is that you’re the best thing to happen to me in years, Brienne.”

“Jaime—” Something stirs in those eyes, in turn, stirring something in his chest. “Jaime, you don’t have to—”

“Your eyes, Brienne,” he goes on, mesmerized despite trying to seize control of himself. “I can do anything for them—anything to make sure not a tear tarnishes their beauty.”

This time she doesn’t intervene, but her chin wobbles in its usual fashion, those lips twitch away, daring him to go on.

“I know it’s too early for us—” He gives her hand a gentle wring, brings it to his lips. “But I am yours, bound to the beauty of these eyes forever.” 

He sits there, tied to those eyes, unable to break away. He knows he’s going to have to face a lecture later tonight when they’re alone, but he just couldn’t help himself. It was like someone else was speaking on his behalf. Once he’d started, it just kept coming—one lie after the other, each seamlessly blending with the previous, fitting in perfectly as if this is what he actually feels about her, that all of this is actually real. 

“Wow,” Ygritte sighs, jolting him out of the world that’s just him and Brienne. “That was simply—”

“Wow,” Sansa agrees, eyeing a blushing Brienne like she has a thousand questions for her.

+++++ 

Jaime stops pacing when the door clicks open and the _love of his life_ enters.

“The girls wanted a little chat before bed,” Brienne explains her delay before he can ask. The pink on her cheeks makes him want to dig further into it, but on second thoughts he decides to keep it to himself.

“Listen—” he pauses, works over whatever he’s been mulling over in his solitude, ready to bring up everything he’s rehearsed. “About all that I said out there—”

“Don’t worry, it didn’t bother me,” she readily dismisses him, almost as if she’s been expecting him to bring this up. “I know you had to go to those lengths to sound convincing.”

That she’s not affected by it, instead of calming him down, stings a bit. “But—”

“Mind turning around?” She pulls out her pajamas from her suitcase. “I have to—”

“Right.” He takes to staring out of the window to allow her some privacy. While a part of him is relieved she didn’t mind him going overboard in front of their friends, he can’t overcome the little pinch in his chest—what woman would be so unmoved by a romantic declaration like this? Granted theirs is no relationship, even so, he’d have appreciated a few words of response.

“Done,” she calls out, indicating he can look.

“You have nothing at all to say?” He lingers just outside when she slips into the bathroom to wind up for the night. “It took me a lot to come up with a speech like that.”

“And it was lovely,” she compliments from the other side of the door. “Any woman would swoon.”

He’s suddenly bothered that he doesn't care about _any_ woman reacting to his little impromptu speech. “What about you?”

Running water is the only sound that greets his question.

The warmth in her eyes when he’d uttered it all, those trembling lips visit his mind again. “Would you fall for a man who pursues you like this, wench?”

Again, nothing.

But it’s nothing only where he’s concerned. Could it be that their moment at the restaurant reminded her of Renly? That the affection in her eyes, that rush of emotions was for her ex? And here he was, thinking he’s moved her enough to agitate her while it’s been Renly all along.

He knows it’s none of his business, but the curiosity within him nudges him further into it, prods him to probe it till the end. “Did Renly try to impress you with such sweet words?” What follows in his head is far from sweet, though, for when he pictures Renly mouthing those sugary lines, they instantly lose their romantic charm. When he imagines the pretty boy holding her hand, or worse still, kissing her, his mouth is filled with an unprovoked bitterness.“Did he capture your heart with ridiculous stuff like this—”

The door swings open and out she comes, her whole demeanor changing at the mention of Renly’s name. “Nope, he didn’t,” she replies in a hollow tone and heads off to the side of the bed she’s now earmarked for herself. “Forget Renly, let’s discuss what you just did.” She pierces him with one of her choicest glares. “If you think it’s that ridiculous, why even bother with it?”

“I—” Taking a break from words, he takes the other side of the bed and gets under the covers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into your love life.” But he knows he can’t help himself. What the fuck did she see in a guy like him? “I guess I’ve been overthinking my role of a jealous boyfriend,” he speculates, but upon careful consideration, this reason for what he’s feeling about Renly makes perfect sense. This is it. This is all there is to his heightened sense of resentment towards the handsome Baratheon. “But, you know, if you happened to be with a real boyfriend right now, I’m sure he’d be as envious as—”

“Oh, stop overdoing it. I’m quite certain Renly had no room in your head during dinner,” she bursts out, sparks from her eyes traveling the gap between them to strike him down. “All the time Lollys was ogling you from across the table, you were enjoying the attention—”

“I wasn’t—”

“It’s not just about her. You make heads turn everywhere you go,” she fumes on. “Those two women at that bar who were undressing you with their eyes—doing more than just that, in fact—”

“You’re jealous!” he interjects, glad to have had some impact on her, despite all of this being one long winded game.

“I’m not,” she hotly denies.

While Jaime knows it’s true, that she’s only getting back at him for his dig at Renly, the playful side of him wants to tease her until she blushes a deep red. “You totally wanted to gouge their eyes out, didn’t you?” He shuffles closer, gives her a little nudge in the side with his elbow. “Don’t worry,” he purrs, putting on a mock-seductive voice, “I’m yours, Brienne. I will always be yours.”

“Enough of this drama.” She jerks his arm away. If _they_ were real, her dismissal would’ve been an absolute mood-killer. “Now that you’re pretending you have a girlfriend, maybe you ought to be a little less receptive to all the female attention you attract,” she advises. That she’s not blushing means she’s referring to their pact and no more.

And that is, oddly, disappointing?

“You think I like this?” His entire life flashes in his mind, the boyfriend he was, the man he is, what he wants to be. “I’ve only had one girlfriend all the time. Before I met you, it was just Cersei.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes are as wide as dinner plates. “I can’t believe a man like you is a one-woman man!” 

“Not even a kiss, let alone sleeping with another woman,” he admits, not quite sure why he’s opening up to her like this. “There are many layers to me, wench. You’ll come to know as we go on, as you get to know me properly. And—” he takes to searching those eyes again “—nothing wrong in that, is there?”

“It’s sweet actually,” she approves, the warmth from her gaze letting loose a swarm of butterflies in his stomach. “Guys like you are pretty rare.”

“Falling for me, are you?”

“Come on,” she whines. “You really need to stop reading between the lines. It was just a compliment—” 

“And I promise to live up to it. I’ll be faithful to you—” he coughs away an obstruction in his throat “—for as long as we have to keep this up,” he adds for better clarity.

“There comes the drama king again,” she teases, and the butterflies begin a vigorous dance in his tummy. 

He doesn’t really know what to make of their friendly banter, but when a quick mental check reveals that three months out of the six months they’d initially agreed upon are up, time seems to have flown away faster than can be justified. What lies ahead suddenly feels too short, and Jaime finds himself dreading the deadline, wishing he had more time, wishing he didn’t have to part ways with her, that they could go on as good friends without it ending in awkwardness between them.

Speaking of awkwardness, Bronn’s sly suggestion earlier in the men’s room dances across his head. And something tells him the secret ladies meeting has everything to do with his shrewd friend’s assumption—only Sansa and Ygritte wouldn’t resort to an elaborate and lewd description of how this night might unfold. “The girls—”

“—they wanted to know if we’ve done it yet,” Brienne gets there before he can, speaking faster than her normal. “When I said no, they went to great extents to point out that tonight’s the best time to—”

“Bronn and Tyrion think so too,” Jaime supplies, and the butterflies descend to his groin, making this even more difficult for him. “Tomorrow, they’re going to have us cornered,” he laments, pitying himself for the sorry fate that awaits them, the endless teasing, the demand for graphic details and unnecessary questions he’s going to have to endure for the coming few days. “And we need to pretend—”

“—we had a wonderfully passionate night,” she concludes, sounding anything but passionate. She nods slowly, takes to fumbling with the edge of the covers to deal with this embarrassment. “We have no choice here, do we?”

It’s one thing to pretend to have enjoyed great sex, but it’s another to get his mind off the game his brain’s starting to play with him. The butterflies are everywhere now. It’s a full-blown war, not a battle anymore, but he’s determined not to succumb. _It’s natural to feel so,_ he consoles himself. It’s been a while since he’s been with Cersei and despite his efforts, the body does have its needs—

 _That still doesn’t explain your lack of interest towards other women,_ says something within him that sounds like a pesky mix of cheeky little Tyrion and wily old Bronn. _Why this one? Why—_

“Not interested,” he silences that voice, quietening down the butterflies that seem to have finally settled down in a corner. 

“Nor am I,” she echoes, and switching off the light on her side, she lies down and pulls the covers to her chin.

Despite sleep fleeing, leaving him clueless as to how to tackle the oncoming onslaught of questions, he follows suit, stares at the ceiling as if it might provide him the requisite answers. 

And then it comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can clamp it down, no filter to tone it down. “You like it rough or gentle?”

Heavy breathing. Then she shifts, he can feel the mattress dent under their weight.

“I know it sounds—” he searches for an appropriate way to put it “—not exactly decent, but I need to know.” He doesn’t dare look at her, trying his level best not to picture himself plundering her with wild kisses, with his deep thrusts, with his grunts that sing a perfectly synchronized chorus with her lustful moans.

“It depends on my mood,” she says softly, and from the way she reveals it, Jaime can make out every word is a struggle.

“How about foreplay?” he continues, her response encouraging him to quiz her further. “Do you enjoy loads of passionate kissing? Or would it be me— _your lover_ touching you all over, groping and caressing—” he has to stop here. His butterflies are back again, now evolved into something larger, each making its presence felt in every part of him they’re encroaching on. “And what pleasures you more than you can take it?” She squirms in his mind’s eye, her toes curling as she grips the sheets as he goes on with his onslaught. “Tongue or fingers, which do you—” 

“I’m answering none of that,” she squeals, scoots over to her edge of the bed putting more space between them. 

“And what’s your favourite position?” he goes on, knowing if he stops he can never bring up this matter again. “What—” 

“You really think I’m going to come out with all that?” The lights go off again. But Jaime can swear she’s having on one of her dagger-stares again. And she’s blushing, if both of these can co-exist.

“You know I’m asking for obvious reasons.” He shrinks away to his corner, slightly upset that she’s repulsed by the idea of even discussing the idea of sleeping with him, her discomfort bothering him more than he can handle it. “It’s not that we’re going to do it tonight, but if you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll leave it be. My apologies for crossing the line—”

“Missionary,” she softly interrupts. “It’s not my ultimate favourite, but I find it quite intimate and romantic,” she dreamily explains. “And kissing and caressing both, I’d quite enjoy—” She halts, takes to examining the bed linen again, revisited by memories of her past, perhaps. “I’ve not shared this with anyone. Not even my best friend.”

“So it used to be Renly on top,” he muses, another unnecessary wave of resentment clouding his head. “And here I was, thinking—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Bringing up Renly has turned the tables on the whole atmosphere, the temperature of the room going down by a few degrees. “Goodnight, Brienne.” 

“Goodnight.”

He switches to his side, but the blankness of the wall only interests him for a few boredom-filled minutes, and just when his head is about to explode, he sits up. “Are you asleep?”

“Umm hmm.”

“Was Renly into wrestling and other sports you have a fondness for?” he begins again with renewed vigour, still trying to fathom what about him might have attracted her. “What common interests did you possibly have? The pretty boy that he is, I can only picture him swaying away in a ballet class and doing other delicate stuff—”

She’s up the next instant, and her light comes on again. “There’s a lot about Renly you don’t know,” she jumps to his defense again. “Besides—” Jaime braces himself, the tone of it tells him what is to follow is going to touch a nerve “—speaking of your commenting on his interests—by what right does a man who sighs every time he watches _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ and sheds buckets of tears over _Titanic_ judge another for choosing ballet or music over something more manly?” 

“There’s a lot about _me_ you don’t know, Brienne,” he says, making a valiant attempt to stay in the argument. 

She turns to him, sits cross-legged with her arms crossed to her chest, ready to take him on. “Like?”

“I’m good at wrestling, too,” he boasts. “I’d like us to engage in a friendly match some day.” Of course, it wouldn’t make sense right now to think of what it might be like to be locked in a tight embrace with her, all six feet three of her covered in sweat, their tank tops clinging together as one, their bodies slick and gliding against each other, skin kissing skin, lapping up all there is. “What say?” he suggests, attributing the beads of perspiration he’s breaking into to an unexpected rise in ambient temperature.

Her strong arms let go of her chest. “Not interested.”

“Why?” He’s in a strange new mood to egg her on, to prolong this for as long as she can take it. “You think I won’t be up to the mark? Or are you worried I might overpower you, fling you down—”

“Not a chance.” But she hides her face, busies herself with untangling her legs, making quite a chore of straightening the sheets and lying down again.

“I can sense you enjoy a challenge.” Jaime, now on his knees, wobbles closer to her. “You and me. Right now. Arm wrestling, if not the bodily version,” he proposes, eager to prove she can do better with him than Renly or any other dude. “I’m strong enough. I’ll prove it to you if you—”

“Not interested. You’re not going to win—”

“What if I do?” A fresh rush of adrenaline hits him. “If you’re so confident you’ll prevail, why don’t you—”

“Good night, Jaime.” 

When she turns her back to him again, Jaime slides down again to try and ease himself into blending with the night. But there’s no such luck. Seconds extend to minutes, and minutes, as his watch says every now and then, to hours, but his head full of the wench and what her life has been, sleep seems far far away. So desperately in love, she’s still so smitten with her former lover that she’s prepared to go to any extent to defend him. What the hell went wrong between them? Will she ever get over Renly fuckin’ Baratheon? Will she ever realize she can do better than him and open herself up to finding love again? Will she—

“I’m going to beat you, Jaime Lannister,” she slurs without warning, stretching her arms in her sleep. “I’m going to overpower you, fling you down—” she trails away, the rest of it, incoherent gibberish.

“I can’t wait for it,” he whispers back, and to his utter dismay, his cock seems to agree. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning leads to some embarrassment and... lots of questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is heavily self-indulgent. UST to the extent I cannot take.  
> Don't blame me. I warned you :)

_I’m strong enough…_

Brienne glances down at the sleeping form by her side—had it all really unfolded in her head, a figment of her lust, an unwanted creation of her subconscious? Unlike most dreams that reduce to a hazy blur the moment you wake up, this one triumphed with snatching away a good part of her mind and rendering it immune to everything else. 

_You’ve locked horns with many men, but you knocked them all to the dust…_

As her eyes drop to the strong shoulders, the peaceful movement of the muscular chest, of what lies beneath that t-shirt, her brain rewinds to the man who had her locked in an intimate embrace, playing it all like an erotic film. Minus the tee that now hugs his skin, he looked like one of those gods descended on earth as they’re often portrayed in mythology-based works. 

_How you wished one of them could overpower you, fling you down, tear off your clothes…_

A spasm in her groin and the arousal down there reveals she’s more affected by it than she should be. Jolting her back to a full state of consciousness is the thought that this is an alarm bell that follows, telling her it’s time to snap out of it and get out of bed to get on with the day, to dismiss this all as an after-effect of last night’s conversation and move on. Leaving behind her still snoring _boyfriend_ , she drags herself to the bathroom to begin her morning routine.

_None of them were strong enough…_

She slows down, easing the pressure of her vigorous strokes on her poor teeth, glances back at herself in the mirror. When was the last she’d blushed this badly?

 _I’m strong enough,_ he’d asserted, not just when he’d challenged her when they were in their senses. And in her dream, he’d proved it just like he’d claimed before she had fallen asleep, tackling her to the floor after a feverish struggle, leaving her sandwiched and writhing between his body and the carpet. After that was a blur, though. When and how their clothes had come off, at what point had this wrestling match turned into furious foreplay, she cannot recollect now, but what came after wouldn’t ever leave her head. 

The heated kisses, his grunts, her moans…It’s like one of those soft-porn clippings that’s both tasteful as well as downright dirty.

Yes, he was strong enough—strong enough to show her what rough meant—just the right dose of _rough_ to leave her gasping for breath, smothered by his kisses, shuddering under his thrusts. Taken aback, she discovers on a closer look that the woman in the mirror only looks like her, but is something else, altogether. Not one freshly awaken from sleep, Brienne finds the sex goddess from her dream staring back at her, the lust in those eyes, scarily intense, those twitching lips that crave to be devoured by him, the hard and pointy nipples aching for his touch, for each luscious swirl of his tongue to—

“That’s not me. I’m not interested,” she mutters, brushing away vigorously. “All I’m interested is in a refreshing bath.” Determined to put this odd straying away of her mind behind her, she rushes through rinsing her mouth and when done, hurriedly strips away and gets under the shower.

The water’s just above the ambient temperature, not warm, not cold, just cool enough to sweep the residual dirty thoughts out of her head, and she immerses herself in the flow, washing him off, scrubbing it all away.

Feeling much better after a while, she winds up and turns off the water, reaching for one of the neatly folded towels from the stand. More confident than when she’d entered, she steps out, but one look at her shirtless roommate up and about on the other side of the door, perched casually on his side of the bed, takes her back to the world she’d spent the night in.

“I—” She’s torn between catching an eyeful of the chest hair that had worn out her soft breasts in her sleep and ensuring the knot holding her towel in place remains firmly in place. “I thought you were asleep. If I’d known I wouldn’t have—”

“I thought you were—” His Adam’s apple rises and falls, his eyes scan her from top to toe, taking in the sorry state of her undress, and at that very instant, she can feel the soothing effect of her bath wearing off, leaving her high and dry and at the mercy of her embarrassment at the height of imperfection that her body is. “I was just hanging around, awaiting my turn to use the bathroom,” he explains, drawing her to the reason his shirt’s not on him but strewn on the bed.

“My clothes—” Eager to quickly cover herself, she scurries over to her suitcase and scoops up the pair of jeans and the blouse and the lingerie she’s packed for today. “Jaime, can you—”

“Sure.”

He turns away before he can be told to, and Brienne is left with a tantalizing view of his muscular back. When he lazily stretches his arms, an updated version of his sexy, _‘I’m strong enough,”_ returns to fill her head, the line making her sweat despite a good part of her body exposed to the AC running in full blast.

 _Just get dressed and get the hell out of his sight,_ she tells herself as she drops the towel and pats her skin dry, but just when she’s about to help herself into her bra, an uncontrollable itching sensation strikes hard somewhere below her right armpit, beneath her breast. She reaches out to scratch the discomfort, but as soon as she touches it, she can feel it spread.

Harder, she needs to go, and she does with vengeance, but her relief is short-lived, for in a fit of over-enthusiasm and the burning need to get this done with, she exerts her arm a bit more than she thinks she can manage, hoping to hit the right spot with just the right pressure, with all fingers and all that it takes to relieve herself of this— 

“Ouch,” she yelps out in pain.

“Problem?”

His voice brings her back to the hilariously embarrassing nature of her situation. “Yeah, but it’s nothing I can’t sort out,” she says, drawing her hand away to ease the pulled muscle which has brought her to an even more annoying state. Her neck stiff and aching, she can’t even turn now, scratching to ease herself totally out of the question.

But so bad is the need to alleviate this agony that even the pain is no deterrent.

 _Just a little,_ she tries to push herself, to bend her arm to her side, but another bout of shooting pain warns her not to try too hard. Her hand far away from its intended destination, she gives up with an irritated groan.

“I can help if you want.”

Logic tells her to turn him down, to put on her clothes and forget about the horrible itch in the hope that if it went out of her mind it’d automatically disappear. But her body refuses to cooperate, the growing pain on her right side siding with it, both coaxing her that it is okay, at times, to seek help, even if help happened to turn up in the form of an infuriatingly sexy, half-naked man pretending to be your boyfriend and mock-flirting with you at the drop of a hat. 

Seeing no sense in suffering, she wraps herself in the towel again. “Fine.”

“I can’t help if I’m not allowed to look,” he quips in his usual playfully cheeky tone. 

After double checking the knot on her chest, she approaches him. “My back—” She sits down on the bed facing away from him. “There’s an itch that’s getting unbearable by the second. I can’t reach it because I probably stretched something trying to get there and it’s just beyond my left hand’s—”

Much to her chagrin, he breaks into an amused laugh.

“You find it funny? Fine, I’ll do it myself.” Feeling sillier for approaching him, she gets up, gets ready to endure this torment instead of the Jaime shaped one beside her, but he pulls her back.

“I was kidding.” His fingers leave her arm, and in a delicate tap dance along the edge of the towel, they survey her _situation_. “Where is it bothering you?”

“If I could point you to it I might as well get rid of it myself,” she grumbles, trying again and failing, ending up with another wince as a jolt of pain rushes down her neck. “Below my right armpit, more along the side than my back—”

“Tell me when to stop.” He glides his hand down the nape of her neck, inches down the curve of her right side.

“Yes, down there,” she instructs, and when he makes it to where she needs him, her heart begins to flutter away when a sense of apprehension overtakes the relief he’s trying to provide her with.

“Right here?” he asks, and when she hums away in agreement, he strokes her over the towel in a gentle up and down motion.

“Not enough,” she whines, gluttony, the hunger to have more as with any itch that needs taking care of, blinding her to everything else. She wants it all, wants him on her skin, wants the pressure, the friction, the heat of it surging through her body, the sparks from it sparking off every nerve, every bit of her. “Not over the towel.”

His hand comes to a halt. “Are you sure—”

“Just do it,” she barks, her impatience soaring to the skies now.

A huff of his breath on her neck tells her this isn’t easy for him, too, but he complies, nevertheless, and dips his hand into the towel. “Further down,” she tells him, needing him desperately to make haste, and while he does as told, while her right nipple perks up in response, it’s still not enough. The sweet spot is still somewhere out there and elusive, thirsting for contact, craving to be touched, to be—

“I can’t go any further,” he complains, giving up after a bit of trying. “The towel is in the way. Why don’t you just—” 

“Let me then—” gritting her teeth, she loosens the knot and pulls it down to give him a free way. “Do it now.” She’s in no state for any alternative he might offer. 

And he does.

Then, it’s bliss.

A breathtaking moment later, it’s more than that.

His fingers are magic—they seem to have a mind of their own, seem to know what she craves. He knows where to touch her and how to do it, goes about it with just the right pressure. Up and down, he goes, his fingernails scraping her skin, careful to stick to his path, careful not to stumble against her breast. “Oh, yes,” she sighs, closing her eyes and surrendering to the sensation that doesn’t just restrict itself to her back. 

“Brienne—”

“Don’t stop,” she moans, considerably louder now, but she can’t help herself. Her body wants it rough now, and doesn't have the patience for his gentle strokes anymore. “Deeper,” she whimpers, and when he delves down to where she’s pointing him to, when he hits the epicenter of her need, she can feel little tremors erupt at her spine and go all the way down to between her thighs. “Harder,” she demands, and when he goes into it with all he has, all she has are grateful sighs and greed for more.

He pauses abruptly. “If you’re feeling better, I should probably—”

“Oh, just keep going a bit more,” she pleads, squirming, wanting him to never stop. And when he steps up the pressure, gone is the pain, an immense wave of satisfaction hitting her, knocking her down. “Faster—”

“You sure?” Again, much to her displeasure, he tapers down to a tender brush of his fingertips against the affected area. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re all sore down here—” 

“I need all of it,” she pants. “So just keep going.”

And he does. Goes on until she bursts out into a string of uncontrollable moans, and for some reason, squeezes her legs together. “This is wonderful.”

The next second, his fingers leave her back to safely rest on her arm. 

“Jaime—”

“You’re all red,” he whispers, taking his hand off. As soon as he breaks contact, the spell breaks, turning the carriage back into pumpkins and the horses back into mice. And from the princess kissed by the prince, she’s back to the wench in a pretend relationship with the most gorgeous man to have walked this earth.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, realizing she's going to take a while to look him in the eye. “I shouldn't have bothered you with this.”

“It was no bother, wench.”

“I—I think I’m good to go now,” she mumbles, groping with the discarded towel she’s only now noticed is abandoned and lying bunched up on her lap. “Wo—” As would be the aftermath of any vigorous itch-alleviation, her back’s on fire now, crying out to be soothed, to be pacified back to a state of normal and calm. And it’s not just her back that yearns for that. First things first, she pulls up the towel to cover her breasts. “Would you mind dabbing a bit of powder on there?” she requests, hating the squeaky edge to her voice. “It’s in my nightstand drawer.”

When he makes it to her side to get it, she draws in a deep breath. Now that it’s over, her neck demands her attention again, reminding her of how this had begun.

When he returns, when his gentle touch works its charm over her body again, she’s tingly and extra sensitive, remnants of her dream returning to her mind which tries to draw a correlation of what she’s just been through with the best non-real sex she’s ever had.

“You know,” he slowly starts when he’s almost done, “the way you moaned in relief, our friends next door might think—”

Shuddering at the way she’d lost control and the impression it might have conveyed to the ill-informed, Brienne shrinks away from him, wraps the towel tightly back around her. “I—I didn’t realize it could have come across like that—” 

“I know.” She can hear him smile.

Accepting the fact that she can avoid him no more, she turns around slowly to face his naughty smirk.

“But unfortunately, it’s only _me_ who knows what the last few minutes were all about,” he goes on, his eyes twinkling. She can see he’s having the time of his life torturing her with this, and all she can do is curse herself for it, for slipping into a state of helplessness and calling out to him for assistance. She knows she’s never going to see the end of this teasing, that this damsel in distress act of hers is going to cost more than just this short-lived awkwardness. “About last night—”

“I remember,” she snaps at him, a new-found dread filling her with a chill as the thought of facing the nosy women circles her head. In hindsight, she’d rather have coughed up a bit of endurance and borne the discomfort than stumble against a giant boulder of gossip and friendly banter and everything that’s out there, waiting for her.

“And?” he prompts, giving her a magnificent view of his bare chest as he gets up to unpack his shaving kit.

The friction of that stubble on her tender skin might have been a dream, but it feels damn real. Even now when her eyes are wide open and her brain fully functional, just like his wonderful fingers on her back. “And what?”

“What are you going to tell them about me?” he asks, pausing at the bathroom door. “About the sex we just had?” he clarifies, as though it needs to be elaborated.

She scowls, but his tantalizing _‘I’m strong enough,’_ is strong enough to take possession of her mind again. 

“Was I good enough?” he goes again, fingertips casually drumming on the doorknob. “Did I meet your expecta—” 

“Why don’t you get in there so I can get dressed?” Steering him off the subject is the only solution to this. 

“If I were Sansa hearing you from the other side of the wall I’d be convinced you had the most wonderful—” 

“Oh, shut up,” she retaliates, seeing no other way to silence him. “I’ll deal with the questions when I get to them.”

+++++

Little did Brienne know earlier that shutting Jaime up was only a temporary solution, that it would last no more than the next few minutes. As soon as they’re done with breakfast, Sansa and Ygritte follow her to the ladies.

“So,” her best friend drawls, her mirthful grey eyes extracting everything they can from Brienne’s.

An indignant, _‘So what’,_ Brienne is tempted to hurl at her, but holds back with great effort. Stumbling into a wolf’s lair by mistake is one thing, but egging one on, provoking it to attack with double ferocity is foolishness. Instead, she answers her with what she hopes is an innocent smile.

“How did it go last night?” Ygritte waggles her brows suggestively as if she can read her mind, can get through to what should’ve, but didn’t happen. “And don’t you skip even the smallest detail.”

“Come on,” Brienne tries to laugh it off. “You’re worse than the guys. It was nothing, really—” 

“The walls here aren’t soundproof, you know,” Sansa takes it further, stamping on her last thread of hope to come out of this unscathed. “I’d say, for your first time, you were quite—” she exchanges a look with her companion “— _audible_.”

“You’re blushing,” Ygritte notes.

“Of course, she is,” Sansa attacks from the other side. “She’s probably still sore.”

“And she probably can’t wait to get back indoors and in bed with him.”

“How did it all begin?” Sansa wants to know. “Did he initiate it? Or was it you? Or did it just—”

“He challenged me to a wrestling match this morning,” Brienne blurts out the first thing on her mind. If she has to take a plunge, she might as well do a deep dive into it. “He assured me he’d beat me in my game, pin me down—”

“You took the bait and dived right into it.” Sansa looks mighty impressed. “Jaime Lannister does know how to seduce his girl.”

“And as you progressed, one thing led to the other,” Ygritte makes an excited guess,. “Details,” she squeals, rubbing her palms together. “Tell us all about it.”

“No way! I’m not going to—”

“Was he on top?” Sansa asks, ignoring her objection. “Or—”

“Is he better than Renly?”

Stymied by the prompted comparison, Brienne takes a pause, the _‘I’m strong enough,’_ echoing across her head again.

“The answer’s obviously a no-brainer,” Sansa conveniently concludes from her silence. “But—” her brows come together in doubt “—you went through a full-blown sexy wrestling match, so how come I heard none of that and only what came after?”

“That’s because we consciously kept it quiet,” Brienne fuels it further, resorting to another lie to cover her first. “But when the sport turned into something else—”

“—you lost control,” Ygritte supplies. “You forgot you were in a hotel room and that people can hear you.”

“Yeah,” Brienne sheepishly agrees. The sooner she gives in, the easier her way out of this ordeal is going to be. “And this is all you're getting. No more details. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“This man’s precious, Brienne,” Sansa sighs dreamily. “At this rate, I’m sure we’d end up sisters-in-law sooner than I—”

“Whoa,” Brienne stops her, her stomach lurching in alarm. “Let’s not jump too high too soon.”

Her friend smiles. “Well, I see it coming,” she predicts with confidence. “You’re smitten with him and he loves you, Brienne—”

“He hasn’t said that—”

“Not in those literal words, but that’s what he meant last night.”

 _No he didn’t. This is all an act, something to keep you guys from matchmaking._ _Another four months and he’ll be gone from my life, and I, from his._

“Maybe he did,” Brienne murmurs, not wanting to outright refute them and spill the beans. “And now if you’ll excuse me—” 

Without seeking an answer, she slips into one of the cubicles before either of them can overstay their welcome on the subject. 

Playing along is fine, but dwelling on it for longer than necessary—that she can’t really bring herself to. Today’s only Saturday and it’s just the beginning of the day, and if this is any indication of what more might lie in store for her during the rest of the trip, the most she can do with the situation is brush every such instance aside and move on.

 _None of this is real,_ she reminds herself, and that’s when her phone beeps. Her heart jumps a little when she opens the text. **“What did you tell them I am like in bed?”**

_Strong enough._

**“How do you know that’s what we were talking about?”** she types out, instead.

In a jiffy, he replies. **“The blush on your cheeks when Sansa murmured something in your ear before you took off, the evil look in Ygritte’s eyes and the way they followed you out of the restaurant—it’s not too hard to guess.”**

Exhaling warily, she leans against the door. In the silence around, her heartbeat hits her louder than what it is. Is she always this expressive? Can everyone read every emotion just by looking at her face? She stares down at the letters on the screen, hovering between wanting to reply and leaving this be.

Another chime gets his impatience through. **“Still waiting, wench. It’s not that you can avoid me forever. Telling me now is a quick and painless way out of it.”**

She takes her time, thinks it through before going for it. **“I told them we had a wonderful night, that you were amazing. And strong enough.”**

That should mark the end of this discussion, but a part of her wants him to prolong this conversation, and soon enough, as if the gods had heard her, there comes a cheeky, **“Better than what you and Renly had?”**

**“No comparison, because you and me—this isn’t real,”** she writes back, determined not to re-read the question in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I did get a bit... carried away with this chapter. Let's just say I was "scratching" an itch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Renly. And of course, Jaime isn't happy.

He’s read it almost once every ten minutes. And every fucking time it’s managed to get under his skin.

Jaime isn’t sure which bit of her last message bothers him more — the _no comparison,_ which, perhaps, implicitly conveys Renly’s triumph over him, or her flippant dismissal of whatever there is between them as _this isn’t real._ While Renly’s sexual prowess is none of his business, as far as what he shares with Brienne’s concerned, her interpretation of that they’ve gotten into—isn’t it nothing but the truth?

_Not entirely._

Something between them _is_ real—their growing friendship, the way he’s beginning to connect with her, the effortless teasing he can afford to engage in only with her be it about her ex or their friends’ expectations of them. His dream felt real, too, as did every inch of her curves when he did manage to overpower her, fling her down, tear off her clothes…

“Just a dream,” he mutters to himself.

_But scratching that itch wasn’t. In doing so, you scratched an itch, yourself..._

“It was nothing like that. I was just helping her,” he asserts, gritting his teeth, descending into the pool in the hope that the water might do him some good. “Just like she needed no more than literally scratching her back. Which I did for her.”

_You enjoyed it, reveled in making her squirm at your touch. Every moan was a treat, every whimper, every gasp, a feather in your cap._

“I admit I got carried away a bit with it,” he accepts, reliving those heated few moments in his head, “but that doesn’t mean I’m looking for more than what was agreed upon.”

_Oh, you are. At least what’s between your legs does beg for a lot more than you'd bargained for._

“Oh, cut the crap,” he dismisses, overcoming the repeated replay of the erection he’d had to get rid of with his hands and a cold shower. He wades around aimlessly, wishing he’d never taken this damn trip in the first place. Some time in the soothing water should calm him down, should bring down this meaningless agitation, but what meets his eyes has quite an opposite effect.

“Hey!” 

The way she’s standing at the edge of the pool in all her skimpy glory—effortlessly sexy, his calm is nipped in the bud, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces before it can make it big. 

He wants to keep it to a casual smile, to project an outward impression that everything’s hunky-dory with him, that this morning was no more than a friend helping out another. Yes, that’s what it was. And no, the plunging neckline of her bikini top isn’t attracting more than just his gaze. He’s immune to the shapely swell of her breasts—he’s most certainly not going to drool at the feast his eyes are unabashedly helping themselves to. Unlike earlier when he’d had a tough time keeping his hormones in check, this time, he’s going to watch his reaction. He can’t allow her exposed midriff and those long legs to take him back to his dream. His mind definitely can’t be permitted to re-paint the erotic picture of his mouth exploring every inch of her, of her smooth bare back, of what he’d seen and what remained unseen, of what’s safely tucked away in the confines of his filthy imagination. 

Yes, it did happen. But now it’s gone.

“Jaime?”

“Sorry.” He manages the smile he’s been trying to bring up for a while. “Why—” His eyes drift down her long neck; his mind caves in, bursting into imagination at the sight of a streak of water trailing down the pale skin, invitingly, enticingly. “Why don’t you join me for a swim?”

But Brienne doesn’t budge, looks down at herself in doubt. “Is something wrong? Why are you staring?”

“I was just—” He decides to tell the truth, but not in a way it’d sound lewd or inappropriate. “Blue is a good colour on you,” he admires, taking in the bits of her outfit that are beginning to drive him crazy. “It goes well with your eyes.” He’s not just saying this out of courtesy or in an attempt to drag himself away from the numerous sensations tormenting him. The softness of the colour does draw attention to arguably the most beautiful feature she’s blessed with.

Easing away into a smile, she gets in to join him. “There’s no one around, but us.” She looks up into the distance to the rest of the gang chilling around the pool, out of their earshot. “You’re not really required to compliment me when we’re alone.”

“Practice makes a man perfect.” It’s best to lie since she’s made light of his genuine praise. Not that it pinches, though. It’s not like he’s going to be admiring her pretty eyes until the end of time. “If I am to be a good boyfriend in public, I’ve gotta put in some work in private, to convince you that I really mean it.”

“Point taken,” she agrees, while splashing around casually. 

“In this case, I actually do—” he adds. “I mean it.”

She politely smiles it off. “Again, you don’t have to flatter me.” 

“Did Renly compliment you often?” The urge to compare is back again. “Has he ever drowned in these exquisite eyes? Has he ever told you they're prettier than the prettiest sapphires that exist?”

She makes her way through the gap between them. “What is this fixation with Renly?”

He shrugs. “Just trying to see where I stand—”

“You don’t have to,” she admonishes him with a closed look she usually has on whenever he mentions Renly. “You’re _you_.” 

He plunges deeper into her eyes to find out the meaning of this disarming, yet, loaded assessment. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re someone any woman would kill to go out with.”

“Would _you_?”

That has her stumped. “I—”

“Brienne Tarth!”

The source of their untimely interruption, much to Jaime’s displeasure, is the last man he’d want to run into right now. Or anytime ever.

“Renly?” The wench is all breathless, and there’s this faint adorable blush creeping up her neck at the sight of the handsome Baratheon strutting down to the edge of the pool, his bare chest puffed up, obviously, in a bid to grab her attention. “You’re here with someone?” She anxiously looks around him for a companion.

A slight tilt of his head and a charming smile that makes Jaime almost retch, accompany his answer. “No girlfriends after you.” 

What the hell is he playing at? The more Jaime ponders this, the lesser it feels like just a _stumbled-upon-your-ex-by-accident_ kind of encounter. Is the pretty boy here to steal his wench from him? To add to his woes, Brienne seems to have overcome her initial awkwardness. Dripping from every strand of her short blond bob down to the last toenail, she gets out of the pool, now appearing more than enthusiastic to pursue this conversation, to spend some time with him, hoping, perhaps, this leads to more than just this one _chance_ meeting. While he knows maturity lies in hiding his feelings for Renly, Jaime can’t help a scowl at the sight of how one smile from the man who once dominated her love life is enough to turn her back into a smitten schoolgirl.

“You still look great,” the gatecrasher gushes, much to Jaime’s irritation, openly gawking at her. “You were never the holidaying sort. So what brings you here?”

“Oh, I’m on a weekend getaway with some friends—”

“And her boyfriend,” he announces, climbing out in a hurry to correct her, to remind her of his presence. “Jaime Lannister,” he introduces himself, trying to sound as caustic as he can.

“Yeah,” Brienne echoes, swiftly looking from one man to the other, “and this is—”

“I know.” Jaime wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer. “The man who once resided in your heart.”

Renly’s affable demeanor shifts to the air of someone trying to decide whether he approves of this situation or not. “You never told me you’re dating Jaime Lannister—”

“You two are still in touch?” This is news to Jaime. And not at all a pleasant one. “You never—”

“It’s nothing,” Renly assures him. “You have nothing to worry about. We’re done—”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” Jaime gives her soft waist a gentle squeeze. Her wet body pressed up against is—this is more than he’d signed up for, but a necessary move to prove a point, to show this Renly that she is now his. “I’m just—” he turns, nuzzles her neck “—just feelin’ a little—” he breaths his way up her skin, lingers around her earlobe. “Why don’t we return to the room for some time out from the others, darling?”

The third wheel around them hangs around for an awkward few seconds, but before he can respond, Brienne wriggles out of Jaime’s intimacy. “I need to go and change.”

“Excuse me, too,” Renly mumbles, and they both head off in opposite directions, one towards the showers and the other—Jaime doesn’t really care where to.

All he knows is that he needs to go after her. Bronn tosses him a suggestive wink as he passes him. “I knew you’d follow her, you jealous dog,” he hisses in encouragement. 

“I’m not—” 

“Go for it,” Bronn gives him his blessing. “Swimming pool changing rooms can be fun. Just don’t give in to the heat of the moment without making sure you’re alone—”

He keeps going on with more bits of advice, but Jaime neither has the time nor the inclination to entertain him now. He’s annoyed, not jealous, and that’s not because he can’t have Brienne for himself—no, that’s not what he’s interested in. He’s angry because the wench looks upon him like he’s a being descended from the skies, like some god she can’t have and is still pining for. 

The moment he enters, she pounces on him, ready with her attack. “What the hell was all that about?”

“I suppose I should ask you that,” he coldly hits back, looking out for company out of the corner of his eyes, and finding no one there but him, raises his voice a notch. “You were all over him like a smitten maiden—what the fuck was _that_ about?”

“I was just surprised to see him after this long,” she breathes—breathes heavily. “And I got a bit excited—”

“Excited, huh?” He takes a step closer and she retreats. “Dreaming about him already? You still want him, Brienne,” he croaks, advancing into her personal space. “You can’t stop thinking about him—”

“Why the hell did you follow me here?” Her eyes fall to his chest. She can’t face him anymore. Breasts heaving, her pupils dilated, streaks of water trickling down her flushed skin—she’s a living, breathing sculpture of arousal. So, of course, she wants to be alone, to shut herself in the shower and finger herself until she comes, in her mind, reliving all the sweaty nights she’s spent with the _one-who-can’t-be-forgotten_. “Jaime, now if you don’t mind leaving—”

“I had to chase you because our friends happened to overhear your saucy exchange with Renly.” 

“There was nothing saucy—” 

“They saw your ex hitting on you.” Yes, this is a plausible reason for him to be here. Any boyfriend would’ve done what he did, doubts arising had he remained standing there unaffected. “If I didn’t act jealous enough—” Bronn’s words come to mind. “They’d think we’d need a few moments together.”

She pulls out a towel from the bag she’d brought down with her. “Why?”

“To have a little chat, maybe—” He glides closer, takes a whiff of the delicious strawberry aroma wafting off her chest—the remnants of her body wash and the body spray that's part of the set to match it. “They probably think we might want to kiss and make up—”

“Wrong of them to assume things,” she whispers, backing up against the wall, large blue eyes tied to his, but lost in a world where she’s wrapped in the arms of the man she loves, aching for Renly’s touch, for him to make hot sweet love to her.

“Or perhaps, not just a kiss, wench.” He can almost feel her lips on his, the current flowing between them, the strange pull that’s egging him on, challenging him to get closer and plant his mouth on hers. “After what happened this morning went viral in the group, they’d expect—”

“Not in here, at least.” But her whole body wishes for it, wishes for her stupid ex to fling himself at her. “Not when there’s a possibility of people walking in. A public place like this—”

“Oh, isn’t that what the thrill is all about?” His mind, leaving Renly aside for a moment, dissolves into something else. “There’s loads of time for a quickie in here—we’ve barely got any clothes on, anyway,” he points out, his eyes dropping to the mouth that yearns for a kiss she thinks she’s never gonna have. “Tell me, if it happened to be your precious Renly who barged in instead of me, cornering you here, horny and needy, eager to steal a few precious moments, a little bit of this and a little bit of that—”

Her reaction gives away her wishful thinking. As her mind delves into picturing it, the towel slips away from her hand. Her breathing gets heavier. Her skin breaks out into a beautiful bloom.

“Wouldn’t you have expected him to follow you in here, Brienne?” He absorbs every inch of her—those eyes that cannot bear to show him what’s in her mind, every freckle lighting up at the prospect of making love to him, the restless nipples beading to peaks thrusting into their confines, eager to burst out of them, desperate to be devoured. “Your body is raging with desire,” he sullenly notes. “You want him to pin you to the wall, to kiss you senseless, to take you right here and fuck you hard against—”

“That’s enough.”

Shoving him off her way, she grabs the towel and disappears into the nearest shower-cubicle.

And all he can do is gape at nothing for a moment, then walk out of there.

On his way back, he encounters a curious Tyrion this time. “Didn’t go well by the looks of it.”

“We had an argument,” Jaime vaguely snaps.

“Because you were jealous.” His brother narrows his eyes to read him with ease. “Did you happen to probe into her past, Jaime?” he correctly suspects, and Jaime can instantly tell it’s a universal blunder. “Did you happen to compare yourself with—”

“So what if I did?” he hotly defends himself. 

Her casually tossed _‘this isn’t real’_ pops up in his head again, putting a perspective to the last two months, to what remains of their arrangement, and that, put together with the coincidence of today’s meeting and his single status, suddenly skyrockets the chances of her ending up with the one she’s never going to get over. Not that who she ends up with is any of his business, but if that’s the end-state she’s eventually going to drift towards, why bother dating him? Why fool herself and the world?

“What you did is called stepping on her feet, bro,” Tyrion gently points out. “Renly was her past and you should let go of it—”

“In case you didn’t notice, he was flirting with her.”

“Yeah, he was, but does it really matter? She’s with you now,” says reason in the guise of his brother’s voice. “She loves you—”

“She has said no such thing,” Jaime stops him there. _Love,_ even if she was his real girlfriend, is going a bit too far at such a nascent stage of their relationship.

“Her eyes say so.”

_Those eyes have pledged to take you for a ride. Just like the rest of her, they’re just puppets in a play that began two months back. Where Brienne’s love is concerned, I’m just the cover. The book is all Renly. Covers just—just exist for the purpose of gloss. The book is what matters and I—_

“Jaime?”

“I did overreact,” he thinks out loud, ashamed of how he’d made a big issue of what shouldn’t at all have disturbed him.

“She’s angry?”

He nods. “She pushed me away. I don’t think she wants to see me for a while.”

“The party tonight should cheer you both up.” Tyrion looks up with a comforting smile. “And after that, make sure you make it up to her. This weekend is all about bonding, Jaime. Make the most of it.”

+++++

He would’ve made the most of it by whisking her away to the dance floor and then apologizing to her later, but the sight of Renly eying her like a hawk while occasionally also sparing a glance for the other guests is beginning to get him in the mood he was earlier today at the swimming pool.

“She looks pretty,” Bronn whispers in his ear.

“Yeah,” Jaime sighs, taken in by the power of blue combined with her eyes. “And no matter how hard the pretty boy tries, she’s leaving the party with me.” He doesn’t feel that confident, though. A little sweet talk is all the man needs to worm his way back into her life. And the prospect of something like that happening tonight—

“You want her.”

Frowning, Jaime turns to his other side to find Tyrion standing guard to make sure he doesn’t flare up or stoop to something drastically unpleasant.

“Go on,” Bronn nudges. “What are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Tyrion hums in agreement. “Go get her.”

And he does.

Before Renly can make his move, he makes his. Before all hell breaks loose, he whispers his request for a dance in her ear. She might be in love with Renly, but there’s this something—a friendship that has bloomed between her and Jaime. Her future might belong to Renly, but this golden evening is Jaime’s, his chance to make amends and get back into her good books. For this one night, he doesn’t want to be reduced to just a showy cover.

“I don’t dance,” she turns him down, leaving him less enthusiastic than he was when he’d made it to her.

“Let’s go out for a walk then,” he suggests, his brain turning up with the next-best alternative. “It’s pretty hot in here anyway,” he grumbles, looking around at the crowd and the strong lighting.

His head clears when they’re out in the garden, only a bit, but enough to broach the subject and get the load off his chest. “I—” he clears his throat “—I crossed a line back in the changing room today.”

She slows down. “You pretending to be jealous for the benefit of our friends is one thing, but—”

“Yeah, I know.” His heart descends a bit at her instantaneous agreement. “I shouldn’t have attacked you for talking to him. I—” _shouldn’t have made assumptions about your feelings for him,_ he wants to say, but somehow he’s not quite sure that’s an assumption. “You were right this morning.” Every line of her text he can see clearly in his mind’s eye, putting him back behind the line he’d inadvertently tried to toe. “There’s no comparison. _We_ aren’t real whereas you and pretty boy—”

“Sorry if that sounded awfully blunt,” she says, settling down on the first bench they come across. “When I wrote that, I was in a strange frame of mind.” She looks away for a moment, then turns to face him again. “I didn’t really mean you’re lesser than him in any way—”

“I know.” He takes a seat beside her. “And don’t worry, I won’t forget we aren’t real.”

She makes a face. “Now are you going to keep repeating it for—”

“You were the one who said it in the first place.”

Those blue eyes now begin to probe him for a change. “Can _we_ ever be?”

He falls in line with her interrogation. “No,” he says, shaking his head in alignment with her message. “But we can be friends, though.”

A gentle blink and a soft smile tells him she’s over today’s incidents.

“And as your friend,” he goes on, taking this as a cue to get to know her better, “may I ask why you’re so averse to dancing?”

Her long silence tells him he’s touched a nerve. “If you don’t want to—” 

“All my life I’ve been taller than the boys around me.” She leans back with a sigh. “And ungainly and unladylike. In my teens, I did have an interest in dancing, but—” She drags an imaginary line along the width of the bench. “No matter how hard I practiced, I never got picked, and the boys—”

“Brienne—”

“They’d rather choose to remain without a partner than pick me,” she sadly recounts. “This went on all my youth and adult life until I met Renly—”

“He was the first to dance with you.” That explains her unconditional devotion for the man. 

“Hmm. But ever since I broke up with him—”

“There will be others who’ll want to dance with you. If—if only you give them a chance.” He’s suddenly bitten by a bug to do all he can to bring back her youth, to make her feel like the girl she wasn’t allowed to be all these years, to do whatever a friend could to bring back the light in her life. “Not all men are the same, wench.”

“I know. You and Cersei—” She looks at him with admiration. “She was one lucky woman.”

“She was my past.”

“What about your future?” The fond admiration turns into intense scrutiny. “A man like you—why did you give up after one failed relationship? While our mutual disinterest and lack of chemistry rules _us_ out, it doesn’t mean you’ll never find someone—”

“Not interested,” he shuts her down, recalling one simpering pretty face after the other, put off, more than turned on, by the way women throw themselves at him. “Not until I find the one for me, at least,” he amends his stand on second thoughts, bringing his denial down a step.

“So what kinda woman are you looking for?” She has around her the air of someone who’d pull out an app and jump right away into matchmaking for him.

And that is the last thing Jaime wants. “What about you?” he diverts her without answering. “Why don’t you move on after Renly—”

“There he is—”

Jaime doesn’t have to ask who. One look at the whole transformation in her body language—the way she straightens, the furious blinking, the quickening of her breathing—it’s enough to tell him who _he_ is. And in spite of trying hard to fight it, Renly’s second untimely arrival fuels whatever it was that had struck him at the swimming pool. Gone is the peace the last few minutes had soothed him with.

“Is he looking at us?” he asks, not wanting to turn and see for himself.

“Yeah—” She looks over his shoulder for a split second, then glances down at her lap. “He’s heading straight for us. Jaime, we—I should probably—”

Without thinking, without giving a damn about the consequences, Jaime swoops in, and grabbing the back of her neck, he presses his lips to the warm softness of hers, his sudden move shutting out the rest of whatever she’d meant to say.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss leads to something TOTALLY unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to fix a few typos and a couple of broken sentences.

Yes, it’s a shock, a surprise move, the last thing anyone could've possibly expected.

But it stays at that for no more than a fleeting couple of seconds.

And now, it’s mind blowing.

Now, when her body decides to shove aside her inhibitions and take over, Brienne feels like she’s floating away somewhere with him. When she lets her hands wander his neck and down his back, when her tummy flutters at the pressure of his lips on hers, she knows this is danger, a red signal she must respect and stop at.

Good sense lies in breaking away and getting the hell out of here, in acknowledging this is a rush of her drunken state, in finding an excuse not to spend this night with Jaime, but her lips, her nipples and someplace deep down in the pit of her stomach—they all seem to believe in the opposite. He draws her close, goes in harder, and she gives him back with all she has, the sensations from the kiss, like her mind, wandering southwards. With every press of his lips to hers, she wonders what it might be like for him to eat her out, for his tongue to strum her clit like an expert playing his strings. 

She shudders when he sweeps her off this world, giving in to his musky aroma tinged with the sweet intoxication of the wine he’s had, whimpers softly when his fingertips kiss the nape of her neck.

 _Yes,_ her lips cry, inviting him in deeper.

 _Yes,_ her cunt screams, aching for his blazing hot shaft as she squirms against the cold hardness of the bench.

_Oh gods, yes!_

And yes, it’s bloody hot out here, too. She’s sweating beneath the figure-hugging gown, craving for his sinewy arms to hold her close all night, for his deft fingers to show her what they’d feel like on her touch-starved breasts. She needs right now the spark of that first touch, for him to trail his wayward fingers from her collar bone to between her breasts, to push down her bra straps and make his way. She needs him to attend to her pebble-hard nipples, circling one at a time, a tiny tweak of each before his flat palm kneads her breast, his fingers curling to scoop, to caress her, to squeeze her. She needs him to drag that hand down further, to play with her navel before he inches his way to her mound.

She needs him to breach the barrier of her panties, to get to where she needs him the most. The slowness of it is pure agony she wants to burn in. Such bliss it would be for him to rip this stupid dress of her, to suck her dry, to devour her, to—

A sexy moan, he lets out, and she can’t hold back from gasping into his thirsty impulse, can’t resist digging her fingers into his neck, can do nothing but squeeze her legs together and drown deeper into him. He holds her tighter, and when he fires up the intensity of the kiss, pressing, pushing, caressing her lips with his, her arousal hits her harder, a sudden rush to her cunt having her arch back into him. She needs to be touched there, to be— 

Just as suddenly he’d drawn her into it, he lets go, leaving her dizzy and panting and wishing, both, for this to have never met its premature end and for them to have never jumped into this pit of fire in the first place.

Jaime is the first to locate his tongue. “Has he gone?”

Still breathing like she’s run back-to-back sprints, she glances over, only now recalling this had all begun with Renly. “Must have. No sign of him.”

“Good—” He doesn’t meet her eye, concentrates on something interesting on his palm, instead. “We should get going, too.”

Silence, thick and uneasy, springs up between them, draws up a wall that’s going to be difficult to break down as they walk back indoors. Brienne’s head is like a crowded train, doubts and questions, more than the simple thoughts that used to reside before this weird involvement with Jaime, fighting for survival, buzzing about, jostling their way around and screaming to be the foremost in her attention. As for her _boyfriend_ , even breathing is all she gets. How quickly can he put this behind him and get back to normal? Will he take this in his stride as if it’s all a part of some everyday routine for him?

Those green eyes have been eluding her ever since he pulled away. And that springs another doubt in her mind. Is she that bad a kisser? But then, if he’d thought so, he’d have broken off sooner—

But again, would he have let go after a quick one if he wanted to make it appear convincing?

_He only kissed me to ward off Renly. And he took the drastic step because he doesn’t like the man. And because he’s had a bit more than usual to drink. It was nothing more. It means nothing more._

When he fumbles around with the door knob, it’s obvious he’s been viewing the last few minutes as, perhaps, his biggest blunder. When he steps in and stops right there, she’s certain it was nothing but a heady rush of dislike for her ex. When he finally draws his gaze to hers, the regret’s there—not lurking around like a doubt or a second thought, but dominant, blatantly making its presence felt.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, taking down something inside her with just that one word. “I did it because—”

“You wanted to prove a point to Renly,” she helps, slumping into the bed. All of a sudden, her head begins to feel heavy. She’s had too much, too, and with a truckload of booze gushing up her blood, agreeing to that walk was a terrible idea. “Why do you want to put him down this badly?”

_So badly that you found it necessary to kiss me. And it was so terrible that you feel sorry that you did it._

“It’s because I—” he drops his phone on the bed and flops down next to her “—never mind. What matters is I shouldn’t have—”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” she bitterly chides him, something hot and uneasy rising up her chest as her mind re-processes the falseness of it all. “Bad idea, Lannister—”

“Hey, you kissed me back!” he scathingly exclaims, his eyes burning her from outside as the words set fire to her from within. “And from what I could make out—” he tilts his face to hers, dares her eyes to deny his claim “—you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t,” she lies, her lips beginning to twitch in denial of her assertion. “You started it and I just played along.”

“It was pretty intense, though.” His eyes stroll away from her, but only for a moment, and then they’re back to pursuing her thoughts with his usual curiosity. “Did you, too, try to prove a point, Brienne?” His brows course together in his unreasonable disapproval of the man he assumes she’s still in love with. “Hands all over me, sighs and moans as if you were aroused—were you singing along to make him jealous?” He’s almost breathing fire now. “Because that’s what it feels like from where I stand—”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Could someone be as dumb as this one? Can he not see she’s moved on from that past? That she’s in no need for a man to make her happy? Unlike him who cannot get over the only girlfriend he’s had, she’s put what didn’t work for her behind her and braced herself to look towards the future.

“You want him back,” he quietly slips deeper into his surmise as his frown lines deepen. “You can’t get over—”

“Stop telling me what I feel and why I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing,” she blasts him, furious with his insolence, with his confession that he’d never have jumped into that kiss had it not been for his need to piss off Renly. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” eager to brush this off her shoulders and get on with herself, she gets up “—I’m off to spend the rest of the evening with the others—”

He grabs her wrist, stops her from leaving.

“Jaime—”

“If you go back to the party someone might ask you to dance,” he warns, back to his teasing old self again. “What will our friends think if you drunkenly hit it off with some stranger?”

“I’m willing to risk it.” Anything good enough to keep away from this infuriating man, she’s game for, but when he looks at her with his puppy eyes, she finds her resolve melting. Try as she might, she can’t bring herself to free her way out of his grasp. 

“Stay with me.” He sighs, then letting go of her hand, he gets up and walks across to the fridge. “But only if you feel it’s okay to.” He takes out a bottle from the mini bar. “About what I just said about you and Renly—” he returns, sits down next to her “—I shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate.”

Having no real inclination to go back to the party, she nods slowly. “Apology accepted.”

A smile pops out of the forlorn cloud that covers his face, bringing back the spark, his irresistible charm. “Does this mean you and I—” He holds out the bottle expectantly. “Unless you really want to return to that crowd, we can stay here, have a drink or two and tell each other stories about our lives—” 

“I’m not—”

“I swear I won’t mention Renly again.” He re-thinks his promise. “Not tonight, at least.”

She ponders his invitation. On another evening, if it had been another man, she’d have turned him down. Getting drunk in a hotel room with a sexy roommate is playing with fire, but with Jaime, she runs no such risk. A man immune to her even after a fiery kiss they’d shared and still head over heels for his beautiful ex—yeah, she’s going to suffer no damage because of this.

What could possibly flare up between them? 

Nah, her heart’s safe. Because his is not his to give to anyone.

+++++ 

She lies there with her eyes cracked open to narrow slits. Not quite asleep, not entirely awake, she blinks lazily to let it in—the golden streak of broad sunlight streaming through the window, flickering away merrily, bouncing across surfaces, bathing the room in its warmth. Unwilling to leave the comfort of the bed, she stirs, half awake, half asleep, her head growing heavier as consciousness trickles into her, a warm _something_ —despite her throbbing temples, she has a weak idea what it is, pressing close to her, pulling her into the sheet covering their naked forms.

 _Naked forms._

_Him and me._

A jolt shaking her out of what she concludes is a hangover, she peeks under the sheet to ascertain what her body is trying to tell her. And she finds his speaking the same language. Undoubtedly still asleep, he reaches out to pull her into an intimate embrace, his fingers tracing the contour of her hip, caressing her as he makes his way up to the curve of her breast. She wants to swat him away, to get rid of this before it grows into a full-blown something uncontrollable, but weak as her body is, it yearns for every bit of this, for him to go all the way. 

Dread meets lust meets a frantic push from within to push him away when his fingertip kisses her taut nipple. But her body’s paralysed to these distress cries, a gasp escaping her when his lips press into her neck, when his incoherent murmurs and throaty noises rumble down her belly and all the way to her thighs. She can feel the heat from his breath make a meal of her headache, can feel the sparks of his unconscious kisses work magic on her. Another faint voice of reason makes a try, tells her she’s supposed to wake him up and find out how the hell they got themselves into this mess, not linger around in his arms, letting him work up a tingling within her, and certainly not surrender and let him wreak havoc in his sleep.

But just when she’s about to wriggle out of this, he shifts again, throws his leg on top of hers, imprisoning her with his body, locking her further into—whatever _this_ is. He spoons up against her, his chest hair rubbing against her back, his hand running its course—doing justice to one nipple, then the other. A quiet sigh, and her body succumbs, still weary from last night. Her brain ceasing to work, she pushes back involuntarily against him, pressing her butt back into his massive erection, and his tip sliding across the crack of her asshole, he begins to respond, moving, slipping into a slow, sensuous rhythm, the length of his shaft gliding along her ass cheeks, his heavy balls riding up and down against her flesh— 

_“Jaime!”_

When he lets go of her with the shocked yelp of someone who’s committed the biggest blunder of his life, she knows he’s fully awake, she’s reminded that this, _still_ , isn’t real. And no, it’s not even a pleasant dream but a horrible embarrassment.

“Fuck—” Sitting up, he pulls his half of the sheet to cover his crotch. “What—what the hell—” 

Grabbing the nearest towel to cover her breasts, she looks around to survey the room—their discarded clothes, down to their undies are strewn all over the floor, there are rose petals and confetti all over, in his hair, on their bed— 

Yes, _what the hell_ would be her way to sum it up, too. 

“What happened last night?” she fearfully thinks aloud, straining her aching head, trying hard to remember.

“We got drunk,” he supplies, filling her in with the obvious. “More than we could handle it.”

“Jaime, did we—” She knows if she racks her brain it would come back, but dreading what it might uncover, she holds back, clings on to a faint possibility that it didn’t happen that way.

He doesn’t reply, turns away from her to perch on his side of the bed, wearily massaging his over-loaded head. “ _Gods, no,_ ” he groans, reaching for a giant box of extra large condoms lying half-buried between their pillows. “Well, I never—” He picks it up, examines it. “Unopened,” he informs her, relieved. “Still has the seal intact.”

“There’s a note lying around next to it.” She pulls out the crushed bit of paper and straightens it out. “ _This sure will last you for more than just tonight,”_ it reads, followed by an, _“Enjoy,”_ and a winking smiley drawn next to it.

Now it’s her turn to massage her bursting head. Maybe they _did_ sleep together. Contrary to her deliciously wonderful dreams, it turned out to be a drunken fuck neither of them remembered the morning after. Hells, she’ll never know what their first time felt like. Not that she wants to—

“I really doubt we did it,” he says, turning to her again. “I’d remember clearly if something like that happened.”

His confidence boosts up hers, and she pats away a clump of rose petals to shuffle closer to him. “I hope not, too. I’m trying to recollect—” 

A shiver runs down her spine when it returns to her, albeit in bits and pieces, tatters she’s trying to put together and draw some sense of the whole thing.

_Glass after glass…_

Loads of raucous giggling, laughing loudly and indulging in small talk, the haze clears up to reveal both of them drawing up unnecessary parallels in their lives and then one of them—it’s still cloudy as to which of them it was—suggesting a game of Truth and Dare. What began as a silly way to pass the time turned into a challenge, and as the game got wilder, one by one the cards tumbled down onto a clumsy heap, leading to a dare that—

_A dare I’m going to regret for the rest of my life…_

_A Sept… and a reluctant Septon who was hesitant to entertain us in the state we were, complying to go ahead with the ceremony only after Jaime had used his Lannister clout on him, offering him a much more significant position back in the capital…_

_A bit of coaxing later, the man had relented, succumbing to the temptation of, one day, rising to the ranks of the High Septon…_

_And then it began._

_A scarf binding our wrists, the distant words of the officiator chanting his part—_

_And we, ours._

_I am his and he is mine—_

_Then the kiss to wrap it all up._

“Jaime—”

“Yeah, I get it now as well,” he cuts her, his trembling voice telling her he’s as unprepared to face this as she is.

A chill wraps around her body as her hand wanders the bed listlessly. The flowers on the bed, the way they’d woken up, their bodies pressed up together—did they actually consummate their drunken wedding? Her eyes drop to the untouched condoms staring back at her cheekily, and a new wave of dread strikes her down. Did they jump into it unprotected?

“Don’t worry, we didn’t,” he murmurs, following her gaze, his conviction, this time, a ray of light in this strange tunnel they’ve wandered together into. “When we got here from the Sept, whatever bit of sobriety that got us through the ceremony crumbled when we got drunk further and slipped into another ridiculous Truth or Dare—”

“We stripped down to our birthday suits, dared _us_ to spend the night the way a wedding night ought to be,” she goes on, her voice squeaky, chipped away at its edges with the sharp blades of embarrassment. She can feel the last dregs of her memory returning.

“But as soon as we saw each other naked, we chickened out.”

 _You chickened out,_ she realizes, and though he had not, explicitly, opened up with his revulsion for her body, he was the first to back off and withdraw to his side of the bed. Her face is burning; this is getting more and more tedious by the minute. A man who’s slept with the beautiful Cersei—surely the prospect of spending the night wrapped around a wench like her would’ve been horrifying enough to get him to develop cold feet.

And yet, the way he’d snuggled up to her, the gentle stroll his fingers enjoyed along her body, the muffled hum of his sleepy whimpers, the heat of his breath sizzling her up to a thousand degrees higher—it could all have been real had it not been for the fact that in his head, it was Cersei he was yearning for. Those needy sighs were for her, a subconscious explosion of how much he misses her. He was hard for her, not his newly wedded wife. 

_Wife._ Even in her head, it sounds strange.

“We tried to get dressed again,” she dully replays it. “But barely able to keep ourselves on our feet—”

“—we collapsed the way we were.” He draws out an extra-long sigh. “I’m sorry for—” he clears his throat awkwardly “—for what I just tried to do in my sleep. It was highly inappropriate.” 

_Of course, you’d be sorry_. She strangles the neck of a stray petal that dares get between her thumb and forefinger. “What are we going to do now?”

“To start with, clean up and go down for breakfast,” he grimly announces, unable to look her in the eye. “We can think of a solution once we’ve gotten this fucking hangover out of our way.”

“Our friends—” she gasps “—how the hell are we going to break it to them?”

Jaime blows away the debris of last night’s madness from his arm. “Prod your memory a bit more. They already know.”

+++++

“Congratulations!”

As the gang get to their feet, showering the _newly-weds_ with their wishes and words of joy, Sansa rushes forward to wrap Brienne in a warm bear-hug. “When I predicted we’d be sisters-in-law soon, I never expected you to overtake me to it,” she mock-complains. “Not that I mind it, though.” 

“It was an—”

“—impulsive decision, I must say.” Tyrion makes it to her, wrings her hand in delight. “And somewhat shocking, particularly when you two barged into our room last night announcing you had tied the knot.” He grins widely “Never thought it’d take my brother to get a generous helping of alcohol up his veins to make this final move on you.”

“My only grouse is you didn’t invite us.” Sansa pouts, this time, genuinely miffed that her friend could do such a thing and keep her in the dark until it was over. “We could’ve been a part of it, celebrated together, made it a lot more memorable than it was.”

“Trust me, it was memorable,” Jaime mumbles wryly as they take their seats.

The group looks from him to Brienne, waiting politely for him to elaborate, to spill out the juicy details of their wedding night.

“Did you have fun last night?” Bronn pokes around like he usually does when he can’t keep shut anymore. “Did you—” 

“Those condoms—” Jaime whispers, his ears burning up to a flaming crimson as he brings it up “—was it your—”

“Yeah, it was us trying to make sure no _accidents_ happen in the heat of a passionate night,” Bronn chuckles. “We weren’t sure if you’d be sober enough to locate your stash, so we decided to get you some and leave them someplace obvious.” He leans closer to Jaime, drops down to a whisper he thinks no one else will hear. “I got extra-large because you know—” He pauses to savour the effect of his revelation on Jaime’s ear. “I hope I got your measurements right.” 

“We were also responsible for the rose petals and the confetti,” Ygritte takes over, saving them from further intricate details of Bronn’s condom story. “A little something to decorate your bridal bed since we couldn’t be there in the moment with you. I hope you made the most of all of it.”

Again, all eyes move from Jaime to Brienne, back and forth, reading what’s unspoken, making naughty guesses.

“So—” Sansa, deciding to target Brienne, waggles her brows at her “—did he go down on one knee?”

“Did you say yes immediately?” Lollys inquires, for once, looking at her with the interest she usually showers Jaime with.

“Or did he have to get all cheesy and bare his heart to you,” Ygritte purrs, “telling you that you’re his sun, his moon, his favourite star—” 

“Guys, getting married was a mistake,” Jaime bursts out, at last, torn apart by this painful interrogation.

“A mistake?” Sansa’s happy smile drops to a tentative curve of her lips. “How can you think of it like that? You’re in love—”

“We were drunk and playing Truth or Dare,” he honestly comes out with it. “And one thing led to the other. We never meant to rush it like this. Heck, even the Septon asked us twice if we really wanted to go ahead with it.” He sighs down at the table. “We should’ve listened to him and turned tail when it wasn’t too late.”

“You were drunk,” Tyrion recalls, “but so much that you weren't aware of what you were getting into. So I’d say it wasn’t entirely a—” 

“We’re going to have to get it annulled as soon as we get back to King’s Landing,” Brienne supports his claim, brushing aside the _love_ aspect Sansa seems too keen to repeatedly reiterate.

“You can’t do that without giving it a shot!” Tyrion looks appalled. “Look—” he breathes in, then lets it out, and then goes on in a much calmer tone “—if this _until-the-end-of-my-days_ thing scares you so much, you can _pretend_ not to be married for a while, but try living together—”

“Living together?” The prospect of spending days with Jaime under the same roof, let alone in the same room and in the same bed sets off something inside her. 

“Why not? It’s definitely worth a try,” Jon, usually the less-vocal one when it comes to matters concerning others, also opines in mass favour. “Not often does one end up this easily with the one they desire.”

Ygritte nods in strong agreement. “You may have jumped into wedlock in haste, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance with it. You never know, it might be the best decision of your lives.”

“If you think about it with a clear head, what’s wrong with staying married?” Bronn’s beginning to grin from ear to ear. “You can’t keep your hands off each other and from what’s been going on for two nights in a row—” he cheekily tilts his head “—all of us here know you can’t keep your hands off each other.”

“But—but marriage isn’t just about great sex and romantic nights filled with exotic wine and fine cuisine—” Keen to build up a strong counter argument, she turns to her _husband_ to back her up. “Jaime—” 

But he’s not looking at her. Buried in his phone, he appears to be typing away furiously. “I feel they’re right,” he concedes when he’s done, much to her surprise. “One surge of impulse need not be stamped down with another. We ought to think about it with a cool head.”

“But—”

A look from him silences her, and when her phone chooses that very instant to buzz silently in her hand, his barely-there nod and his discreet blink prompt her to take a look at the message.

 **“Let’s not discuss this in their presence,”** it reads. **“And of course, this marriage won’t continue to be one for long. Four more months, it is. After that, you and I will part ways no matter what.”**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of the wedding leaks, leading to complications.

“When we first met, I never thought I’d be dragged deeper and deeper into this mess,” Brienne laments, and despite feeling a pinch at him being dismissed as a _mess_ , Jaime has to agree with her. “Why did he have to go and announce it to your dad?”

He glares at the phone that brought him these tidings. “How do I know?” And why should he share the blame for his brother’s overzealousness? But then, if it weren’t a whole big story they were presenting to their friends, wouldn’t a wedding have been a fairly-tale ending to a whirlwind romance? Even if it did involve a fair amount of alcohol, it would have been an apt beginning of a new dream either of them would’ve been eager to realize.

Brienne continues to unpack the clothes from her suitcase and stacks them on his bed, arranging them by category. “And why is he visiting you tonight?”

“How should I know?” Jaime explodes again. His dad’s sudden announcement that he’d be turning up to stay with them for a few days is another stumbling block in the uneven road he’s trying to restore to normalcy. “If I try to dissuade him, he’ll only get suspicious.”

“And you want me to live with you until—”

“—he returns to Casterly Rock, at least,” Jaime requests, doing some quick thinking about how to tackle both his father’s demands and what he’s putting his new _wife_ through.“Look, let him get here first, and when the time’s right, I’ll tell him about us and sort this out.”

“Sort this out.” She straightens the crumpled blouse she’s folding. “What does that imply for you?”

“Well—” he wonders whether to confide in her or not “—my father, last year, gave me an ultimatum to get married and settle down in the next two years, give or take a few months of _grace time_ , to put it in his words. If I don’t oblige him, he’ll disown me, cut me out of the empire—”

“That’s preposterous!”

“But that’s not what I’m worried about,” he tells her with a heavy sigh. “He knows that, knows how to play with people’s weaknesses, which is why he extended this blackmail game to Tyrion.” That his brother’s fate depends on the outcome of his matrimony—if this isn’t bad luck, what is? “This ambitious self-financed project Tyrion’s working on—he badly needs the money for it, and if dad backs out, my brother’s career’s almost close to ruined. He’d be devastated if the support is withdrawn.”

He can see her put two and two together in her head. “If you marry, you get the empire, Tyrion gets his funding—”

“—and my dad gets his grandkids,” Jaime sourly summarizes with the epilogue. “That way everyone’s happy—”

“—except you.” Pity and the need to do something about it edges out her regretful expression. “You still love Cersei, so you don’t think you’ll ever be able to commit to anyone other than her.” The next second, those eyes withdraw into a shell, hiding her emotions out of his sight. “But you’ll still go ahead, and for the sake of your brother, leap into a relationship with—” a frown crosses her forehead “—any of the millions of women who’d happily jump into your arms in the blink of an eye.” 

That’s what he used to think, assumed he’d never be able to get over the woman he loved. But then, this isn’t just about him anymore. “Any of them, probably, but not you, wench, so don’t worry—”

“Of course it can never be someone like me.” Those brows clash, offended. “I’m not beautiful or rich or—”

“You’re in love with Renly,” he concludes like she did, only in this case, he is actually right, though the ‘ _why him’_ bit of it will always be beyond his understanding. “And you’d rather be single than—” He sets out in pursuit into those eyes, keen to find out how deep a love story this is. “If Renly were to express an interest again, would you—”

“I don’t know—” She bites her lip, absentmindedly fiddles with the lacy bra in her hand. 

At the sight of it, for an unavoidable moment, Jaime is dragged off to a mental image of the sexy fabric hugging her breasts, those pink nipples pushing into them when she breathes, the dainty edges accentuating her cleavage, the thin straps begging to be yanked down—

“It’s not gonna happen,” she says, from somewhere in the distant reality he’s struggling to get back to.

“If it does, will you let it happen?” he probes. To his relief, the bra safely folded and tucked away between a pair of pajamas and a shirt. 

“Even if he does hint at that, I’m married to you,” she points out. “And as long as—”

“—just give me some time to find a way to deal with dad, and then I promise the first thing I’ll do is to file for an annulment,” he assures her. “Until then, you might have to keep your hands off Renly—” Another mental vision intrudes, only this time, it’s irksome like any other that involves her obnoxious ex.

“As if he’s waiting to take his shirt off for me,” she retorts.

Jaime wishes he could read her mind. Is she missing him that badly? Does she spend lonely nights, thinking about him? His irritation mounts; the last thing he wants is to hear her moan another man’s name in his bed. If only his father had not decided to invite himself… They’d still have had to move in together, but she could have slept in the guest room instead of cozying up in his. Nudging Renly aside is another array of visions barging into his head, most of which are a vivid replay of their _wedding night,_ of how they’d cuddled naked, of the embarrassing erection he’d woken up with, of how it had taken a cold shower and more to tend to it.

“Never thought I’d be moving my stuff to your bedroom,” she muses, the exact same thought striking her. She begins arranging her clothes in the wardrobe he’s cleared out for her. “This is weird as hell—”

“Why weird? Am I not worth living with?”

“That’s not what I—” She stops abruptly, frowns at the piece of cloth in her hand. “Never realized I still had this.” When his eyes shrink in question, she brings it to him. “It’s an embroidery assignment from when I was in school.”

“It’s lovely.”

Contrary to what he expects, his praise is met with a scowl. “Not according to Mrs. Roelle,” she snaps, venom, uncharacteristic of her nature, coating her remark. “Since my mother passed when I was a child, she was my nanny. Such a wonderful source of encouragement she was,” she sarcastically reminisces. “Always knew how to crush a little girl’s confidence.” She looks back at what is obviously a painful memory with a dry laugh. “Not a day went by without her making it a point to drill it into my head that I’m no good as a girl, that I’ll be worse than undesirable as a woman.” She trails a finger down the stitch that has not one noticeable flaw in it. “She disapproved of my unladylike pursuits, mocked my attempts at knitting and needlework, music and dancing—”

“Oh, fuck this foul Mrs. Roelle,” Jaime bursts out, his heart going out to the disappointed and crushed child, to the woman who’s been forced to consider herself a blot on her sex, a disappointment to a partner. “Fuck anyone else who criticizes you.” He reaches out to take her hand. “You’re _you_ , and you’re brilliant.” 

A smile peeps out of the cloud of glumness. “You really think so?”

“Of course,” he quips, eager to do anything to lighten her mood. “That’s why I married you.”

The smile lingers a bit, but she abandons it for a pout. “You only did because none of your pretty admirers were with you in that hotel room that night.” Brienne goes back to the serious look she has on when she’s deeply pondering something. “Now that this wedding has been brought to your father’s notice, I’m not sure how long I can keep it from mine.” He can see she’s dreading that moment. “And when he comes to know this is a mess we’re looking to get out of, it’s going to sadden him.”

Jaime tugs at her hand, prompts her to sit down. “Not if you find someone and settle down.” Deep down, he wishes it, wishes her all the happiness one could have, but deep down, there’s also this strange feeling that accompanies the prospect of getting through a day without seeing or talking to her when they both move on. “Too bad _we_ aren’t meant to be,” he teases, hoping his jovial tone would make him feel better. “Our friends are convinced we’re made for each other, that we’d be a bomb together.”

“But they’re wrong. We don’t even share a common taste in movies and TV shows—”

“I agree we don’t like the same things, that you enjoy _Star Wars_ and _Doctor Who_ whilst I spend hours with reruns of Friends, but we—” 

“Hey, I love _Friends_ , too!” Her face lights up. “I literally jumped up and down when Chandler and Monica eventually got together—”

“You’re a fan of them, too?” He can never have enough of the evolution of one of the best relationships on television, and right from the day Brienne evolved from a stranger to a friend, there have been instances where he has drawn parallels between them and the telly couple. “A fitting example of friends to lovers.” 

“Yeah.” She sighs contentedly. “Monica was fat when she was young, like I was unladylike and—” her face falls again “—she turns into a swan, but I will never—”

“Your Chandler admires and appreciates you for who you are,” Jaime leaps in again, and when he realizes his innocent revelation could be misunderstood, amends it to, “As a friend, of course, before you start getting other ideas.”

That look of admonishment is back. “What makes you think I’ll get other ideas?” 

“Nothing in particular.” Distracted, he fishes into his pocket and pulls out a box.

“Are those the same—” Her cheeks turn a shade of pink he adores.

“Yeah.” He pulls open his nightstand drawer and tosses the condoms into it. “Don’t worry, I have no shady intentions” he explains, because, well, just in case she happens to assume otherwise. “I brought them back only because I didn’t want to just chuck it away—”

“—because it might come in handy someday?” The colour on her face deepens. “I totally get the urge to tuck it away, instead, for the _someday_ you’re hoping to get back with Cersei.”

“Are you jealous—”

“Nope, why would I be?” Brienne gets up, gathers the remnants of her wardrobe on his bed. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

She’s right. Why would she be jealous of Cersei? Her snippy reaction to the condoms can be no more than a manifestation of her frustration, more proof that she still pines for Renly and craves the relationship—at least the physical aspect of it.

“This is—” He pulls out another lacy bra he’s been sitting on. This one’s a lovely blue, and this too, transports Jaime into another of his troublesome horny fantasies. “Yours—”

“Give that here—”

Cheeks still flaming, she shoves it between the bundle she’s holding, turns away from him to busy herself with arranging the shelf.

+++++

All along the ride from the airport, his father had reserved his words, and even after reaching home, resorted to the most basic of the usual common pleasantries when Jaime introduced his _wife_ to him. Given that Tywin Lannister is a man of business and only words that mean business are those to slip past those lips, his behaviour isn’t a surprise at all. 

But this is like waiting for a bomb to explode, watching, with a rising heartbeat, its ominous timer tick away to the dreaded zero.

Nothing hits them until dinner, which is when his father opens the matter with an, “I expected Tyrion to pull a rebellious feat like this to spite me, not you.” 

Jaime regards his unreadable expression, tries to extract the sentiment behind the statement. Could it be that he disapproves of this marriage? If so, that would simplify the announcement of their annulment a great deal. It might save Brienne the agony of pulling through with this for longer than she’s comfortable, while at the same time, keep Tyrion away from his wrath since breaking this wouldn’t technically be Jaime’s decision.

“But—” his father gives him a rare smile, putting his speculations to rest “—I forgive you because all’s well that ends well.”

“Dad, this marriage was an accident,” Jaime says, trying to nudge his father towards a disapproval. “We got drunk and stumbled into a sept by mistake, didn’t even realize what we were doing—”

“Which is why I propose a reception,” his father grandly announces. “But before that, we should have another ceremony at Bealor where your mother and I—”

Jaime splutters into his drink. “No, we don’t—”

“We must,” his father emphatically shoots down his say. “You’re Tywin Lannister’s son,” he scolds, the disapproval Jaime had wished for, flashing in those eyes. “If you think you can just elope to some godforsaken resort and—” He pauses, daring Jaime to defy him. “We’re having a real, proper wedding and—” he turns to Brienne “—I’m sure your folks must be keen on the same.”

Confined to the background of this conversation all this while, Brienne gulps at the sudden shift of the spotlight on her. “I haven’t, yet, told them about this.”

“Then it’s time you do,” his father decides on her behalf. “Next Sunday—” he beams at them both “—what do you think?”

Not sure what to say, they exchange a helpless look.

“It’s settled then,” Tywin says, happily taking their lack of immediate objection for a concurrence. 

“No,” Jaime counters. They’re not puppets—his father can’t just walk into their lives and bully them into spending every minute of it the way he wants them to. “Brienne isn’t really comfortable with such publicity. And she has her reasons for keeping it from her family for now.” This is between his father and himself, and it would be totally unfair to have this innocent woman caught in their cross-fire for no fault of hers except for agreeing to play this stupid dating game with him. “I’m doing nothing that displeases her—”

“You’d rather have me cut a sorry figure among my peers?” his father quietly intervens. “What would the headlines read— **Lannister scion elopes with unknown woman** . **Father has no say in the alliance**.” His tone is low, persuasive, bearing no stress of what’s bothering him. “Look here, son—” The lines at the corners of his face ease out, a sign of forced calm, an indication that an attempt for negotiation is coming. “Nothing makes me happier than your decision to settle down. You’re happy with the woman of your dreams, I’m happy because I get to finally leave everything to you and retire to golf and other comforts men my age should be indulging in.” Those eyes narrow with purpose. “And Tyrion’s happy because he gets all the support he needs. So—”

“Next Sunday would be fine, Mr. Lannister.”

Surprised, Jaime stares at her. “Brienne, do you even—”

“I’ll call my dad and give him the good news,” she goes on, forcing a smile.

Tywin nods. “Good girl.” 

“We are NOT having any reception,” Jaime makes it clear. He had planned to apply for an annulment on the grounds of not being in their proper senses while exchanging vows, the chances of which they’d be totally ruining if they decided to go out and celebrate their union. “If you wish to play with your grandkids, dad, I sincerely hope you will respect our decision to keep this quiet for as long as Brienne wants it that way.”

His father pierces him with the hawk-like gaze he thinks will coerce them into submission to his will. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m trying to reason with you.” Jaime drains the last of his wine and wipes his mouth. “After my breakup with Cersei, I never really thought I’d find someone again—” Unbidden, his eyes go out to Brienne before returning to his father. “I’m happily married. What more do you want? Is it the publicity that appeals to you more than what we actually have?” 

“Are you saying you’ll decide not to have children if I don’t submit to your stupid whim of keeping a low profile?”

“I’m only asking you to give us some time.” His hand subconsciously reaches out to grasp his wife’s. “When we stepped into that sept, she wasn’t quite ready for it. But the day she is, you have my word that we will give you your chance to publicly recognize this marriage—”

“Fine,” his father concedes, bringing this tiresome parley to an end. “You love her, I can see that. Why else would you argue with me on her behalf?” He takes a resigned sip, drinks deeply. “And she’s ready to do my bidding for your sake despite it bringing her discomfort. A well-matched pair, I must say.”

Relaxed, at last, Jaime lets go of her hand.

“I think I'm going to like her,” his father goes on, turning to Brienne, and when his eyes bear no sign of condescension for her looks, her social status, Jaime doesn’t know what to make of it. “But, Brienne, if I may go on to ask you something personal,” he politely continues, “Jaime is a social figure. Women clamour for his attention, they’d do anything to woo him, to be courted by him, and—” he clicks his tongue in distaste “—the worst thing is, they’re usually after the money, not him. Don’t get this wrong, but what was it that attracted you to—” 

“I fell in love with him,” she promptly lies, making it sound so convincing that even the usually bluff-proof Tywin Lannister buys it instantly.

So compelling is the warmth and affection in her eyes, that for a second, for one heart-stopping moment, Jaime yearns for a woman to look at him like this, to make him feel like the most-loved creature in this whole wide world.

“You'll make my son a good partner.” The shock of his father’s double-declaration of his uncharacteristic admiration of her pulls him back to the dinner table. He gives her another smile—so much of this, he’s normally stingy with. “You seem sincere, though you’re not Jaime’s type. And not certainly the type I had in mind for a daughter-in-law.”

+++++ 

“Why this sudden need to set out for an after-dinner stroll?”

Jaime slows down. “I just—” Excuses that usually come so easily to him seem to have deserted him now. “Do I really need to have a reason ready for wanting to spend some time alone with my wife?” he teases, instead, diverting her from the trick question. “On a serious note, what were you thinking when you caved in to that stupid reception idea of his?”

“I said yes because I was worried about Tyrion.” Eyes full of innocence and concern—she keeps them straight, walks on. “I didn’t want any lasting damage to his—”

“We’re not telling anyone other than the people who already know.” Does she even know how to be self-centered? “And as soon as dad’s out of the way, I promise I’ll get the papers ready.”

She crosses her arms to her chest. “Thank you.”

“I should thank you for keeping up the ruse so admirably.” He recalls his father’s note of praise. “You totally nailed it. Dad was left gushing about you.”

Instead of looking flattered, she makes a face. “He judged me as _not your type_.” Stopping abruptly, she rounds in on him. “What’s your type? Pretty blondes a few inches shorter than you?”

Chuckling, he takes her hand. “You don’t have to be jealous. I’m yours,” he jokes, for that is the only way to shrug off her question. “I will always be yours.”

All’s quiet between them for a moment, then she slips into a giggle. “Right. A very romantic thing on a night like this, it would’ve been, had it not been a big fat lie—”

A clap of thunder drowns her words, and before they can react, a heavy drizzle is upon them. She immediately scans their surroundings for some place to huddle under, but they’re in no such luck. “We’ve got to hurry up—” 

“Oh, come back here.” Jaime tugs at her hand, keeps her from scurrying off. “You said you love a walk in the rain, so why the rush to get back indoors?”

“But—” She looks confused. And with the showers catching up, adorable, too, with little streams running down the stray strands of her hair, the droplets clinging to those long eyelashes, shining like stars, giving her the look of a lost princess. “Jaime, you _hate_ being out in the rain.”

“I do, but I can do with it once in a while,” he says, enjoying the puzzled look she still has on, the way her lips are still slightly parted in surprise. “I’m not going to join the puddle on the ground—”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Dance with me.”

The surprise in those eyes deepens as they double in size. “What? Now? In the—”

“—rain, yes.” He pulls her closer, his other hand going around her waist. “You danced with Renly Baratheon. I’m sure one dance with me is definitely not going to hurt.”

She breathes in, then brings her other hand to his shoulder. “This is crazy.”

“Sure it is.” He leads her into a waltz as if this street is their ballroom. “That’s what makes it fun, don’t you think?”

Brienne continues to look at him as if he’s lost his mind. “But there’s no music.”

He looks deep into her eyes, then looks up, prompts her to pay close attention to the merry pattering of the raindrops. “Can you not hear it?”

When her lips shiver into a smile, he begins. His left foot, he brings forward, and on cue, she makes her move, her right stepping backward. No traffic, no pedestrians at this hour other than them, this is their private dance floor, and the setting—it couldn’t have unfolded better.

Their feet settle into a perfect rhythm— 

His right to his right, her left to her left— 

His left to his right, her right to her left—

Her initial awkwardness dissolving away with the streaks of water, she eases into his rhythm, glides effortlessly with him. So perfectly they fit with each other that it feels like they were made to dance together. “You’re pretty good at this, Brienne,” he whispers, in awe with her graceful moves. Her eyes light up, leaving him wondering what else she’d been deprived of as a girl and full of resentment for the nanny who had nothing but criticism for her. “Fuck Mrs. Roelle for destroying your confidence. I told you there’ll be others who would gladly dance with you.”

She takes a step to her right. “Thank you for being such a wonderful friend, Jaime.” 

He draws her into their next move. “You’re always welcome.” 

Before long, he’s lost in it, in the beat of the rain, in her breathing he can still hear over their song, in the way her blouse clings to her, the outline of the lacy bra that had haunted him earlier. He recalls the night he’d seen her naked, and drunk though, he was, remembers every curve and every birthmark and everything that makes her _her_. With every step, he pulls her slightly closer; his fingers tighten on her waist, her drenched skin burning into his, and before long, they’re almost chest-to-chest. Even in this dim streetlight, he can make out every freckle on her face, count every droplet kissing her skin, hanging precariously from those lips. She might have danced just with one man in her life, but this—she in his arms, rain-soaked and giggling her way into what took off after a reluctant start—this is something, he’s certain, she has not indulged in with pretty boy Baratheon. 

Almost as abruptly as he’d started it, he slows it down, bringing it to an easy and gentle pace. Closer than before, never breaking eye contact for more than a blink, they move like they’re swaying to a soft romantic number. “We’ve done everything you’ve done with Renly, except—” He tries not to look too hard at her heaving breasts. “What would have happened if we’d accidentally slept together that night?”

She blinks as rapidly as his heart is pounding. “Thank the gods, we didn’t.”

To his surprise, her answer doesn’t sit well with his jovial mood. “I, too, am glad we didn’t, but that wasn’t exactly a nice thing to say, wench—”

“It’s not.” He’s sure she’s blushing now. From the looks of her, this embarrassment is always going to erect a bit of awkwardness between them as far as she’s concerned, at least. “I—I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“So,” he drawls, his voice unnecessarily hoarse, an effect of this prolonged exposure to the rain, if his diagnosis is right. “What’s the verdict?” he asks, as playfully as he can to steer this conversation back to normal. “Am I a better dancer than him? A better kisser?”

She answers him with a gentle smile that screams diplomacy. “All I can say is that Cersei is one lucky woman.” Her eyes wrap around him like a warm blanket, shielding him from the aftermath of his soaked clothes. “She had all this with you, so—”

“But I married _you_.” 

When the smile fades away, Jaime realizes he’s gone too far with the teasing. “Brienne—” 

Another bolt of thunder hits the skies, and with it, their moment draws to a close as she pulls away from his arms. “We should be heading home.”


End file.
